•:'

THE

POEMS OF OSSIAN,

g BY JAMES MACPHERSON, ESQ.

TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED.

4 PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE,

AND DISSERTATIONS ON THE ìERa AND
POEMS OF OSSIAN-

LOS DON.

Printed for i'.. and J. Rivington : J. Nunn; T. Ca>

dell; Longman, >rme, Brown^and

«#reen; C. P Richa dson: J.

» -.dCo. : Hsrding, Triphook,

ry, and Allen ;

srwood, Jones, and

<>4B&md Joy ; Simpkin and

.rt«r»*^„, ieyj G. Cowie; T. Tegg;

and J. Du

B ìaYison, Whitefriars.

1825.

Oav. »^».

■ Printed. , l>r i ' JtJJSMna&m &• ifa i>/Aer ftvpruttiii /</;/. 'jft /.

<- - * <* ^

/. <> .\ I) o V .

POEMS OF OSSIAN,

TRANSLATED

BY JAMES MACPHERSON, ESQ.

TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED,

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE,

AND DISSERTATIONS ON THE -tRA AND
POEMS OF OSSIAN.

LONDON:

Printed for C. and J. Riviugton; J. Nunn ; T. Ca-
dell; Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown, and
Green; G. B. Whittaker ; J. Richardson; J.
Walker; Newman and Co. ; Harding, Triphook,
and Lepard; Kingsbury, Parbury, and Allen;
Black, Young, and Young; Sherwood, Jones,
and Co. ; Baldwin, Cradock, and Joy ; Simpkin
and Marshall; K. Scholey; G. Cowie; T. Tegg;
and J. Duncan.

By T. Davison, Whitefriarjs.

CONTENTS.

Page
A Preliminary Discourse ... 1

Preface . . ... 31

A Dissertation concerning the /Era of Ossian 37
A Dissertation concerning the Poems of Ossian 49
Dr. Blair's Critical Dissertation on the Poems

of Ossian . . 77

(ath-loda, in three Duans . . .171

Comala . . . . 181

Carric-thura . . . . .189

Carthon . ... 201

Oina-morul ... . 213

Colna-dona . . . . .217

Oithona ..... 220

Croma . . . . . . 226

Calthon and Colmal . . .231

The War of Caros . . . .238

Cathlin of Clutha . . . .245

Sul-malla of Lumon . . . .251

The War of Inis-thona . . . 255

The Songs of Selma ... . 26o

Fingal, in six Books . . . 267

Lathmon . . . . 329

Dar-thula ... . 339

The Death of Cuthullin . . .352

The Battle of Lora . . .359

Temora, in eight Books . . . 367

Conlath and Cuthona . . . .441

Berrathon 446

PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.

AS Swift has, with some reason, affirmed that all
sublunary happiness consists in being well deceived,
it may possibly be the creed of many, that it had
been wise, if, after Dr. Blair's ingenious and elegant
Dissertation on ' the venerable Ossian,' all doubts
respecting what we have been taught to call his
works had for ever ceased ; since there appears cause
to believe, that numbers who listened with delight
to • the voice of Cona,' would have been happy, if,
seeing their own good, they had been content with
these Poems accompanied by Dr. Blair's judgment,
and sought to know no more. There are men, how-
ever, whose ardent love of truth rises on all occa-
sions paramount to every other consideration ; and
though the first step in search of it should dissolve
the charm, and turn a fruitful Eden into a barren
wild, they would pursue it. For these, and for the
idly curious in literary problems, added to the wish
of making this new edition of ( The Poems of
Ossian' as well-informed as the hour would allow,
we have here thought it proper to insert some ac- ,
count of a renewal of the controversy relating to
the genuineness of this rich treasure of poetical
excellence.

Nearly half a century has elapsed since the publi-
cation of the poems ascribed by Mr. Macpherson to
Ossian, which poems he then professed to have col-
lected in the original Gaelic during a tour through
the Western Highlands and Isles ; but a doubt of
their authenticity nevertheless obtained, and from
their first appearance to this day has continued in
various degrees to agitate the literary world. In
B

2 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE,

the present year, 'A Report*,' springing from an
inquiry instituted for the purpose of leaving, with
regard to this matter, ' no hinge or loop to hang a
doubt on,' has been laid before the public. As the
Committee, in this investigation, followed, in a
great measure, that line of conduct chalked out by
David Hume to Dr. Blair, we shall, previously to
stating their precise mode of proceeding, make
several large and interesting extracts from the
historian's two letters on this subject.

* I live in a place,' he writes, ' where I have the
pleasure of frequently hearing justice done to your
Dissertation, but never heard it mentioned in a
company, where some one person or other did not
express his doubts with regard to the authenticity
of the poems which are its subject, and I often hear
them totally rejected with disdain and indignation,
as a palpable and most impudent forgery. This
opinion has, indeed, become very prevalent among
the men of letters in London ; and I can foresee,
that in a few years the poems, if they continue to
stand on their present footing, will be thrown
aside, and will fall into final oblivion.

' The absurd pride and caprice of Macpherson
himself, who scorns, as he pretends, to satisfy any
body that doubts his veracity, has tended much to
confirm this general scepticism; and I must own,
for my part, that though I have had many particular
reasons to believe these poems genuine, more than
it is possible for any Englishman of letters to have,
yet I am not entirely without my scruples on that
head. You think, that the internal proofs in
favour of the poems are very convincing : so they

* ' A Report of the Committee of the Highland
Society of Scotland, appointed to inquire into the
nature and authenticity of the Poems of Ossian.
Drawn up, according to the directions of the Com-
mittee, by Henry Mackenzie, Esq. its convener, or
chairman. With a copious Appendix, containing
some of the principal documents on which the Re-
port is founded. Edinburgh, 1805.' 8vo. page 343»

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 3

are; but there are also internal reasons against
them, particularly from the manners, notwith-
standing all the art with which you have en-
deavoured to throw a vernish * on that circum-
stance ; and the preservation of such long and such
connected poems, by oral tradition alone, during a
course of fourteen centuries, is so much out of the
ordinary course of human affairs, that it requires
the strongest reasons to make us believe it. My
present purpose, therefore, is to apply to you, in
the name of all the men of letters of this, and, I may
say, of all other countries, to establish this capita]
point, and to give us proofs that these poems are,
I do not say, so ancient as the age of Severus, but
that they were not forged within these five years by
James Macpherson. These proofs must not be
arguments, but testimonies : people's ears are forti-
fied against the former; the latter may yet find
their way, before the poems are consigned to total
oblivion. Now the testimonies may, in my opinion,
be of two kinds. Macpherson pretends that there
is an ancient manuscript of part of Fingal in the
family, I think, of Clanronald. Get that fact
ascertained by more than one person of credit; let
these persons be acquainted with the Gaelic; let
them compare the original and the translation ; and
let them testify the fidelity of the latter.

' But the chief point in which it will be necessary
for you to exert yourself, will be, to get positive
testimony from many different hands that such
poems are vulgarly recited in the Highlands, and
have there long been the entertainment of the
people. This testimony must be as particular as it
is positive. It will not be sufficient that a High-
land gentleman or clergyman say or write to you
that he has heard such poems : nobody questions
that there are traditional poems in that part of the
country, where the names of Ossian and Fingal,
and Oscar and Gaul, are mentioned in every stanza.
The only doubt is, whether these poems have any
farther resemblance to the poems published by

• So in MS.

4 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.

Macpherson. I was told by Bourke*, a very in-
genious Irish gentleman, the author of a tract on
the sublime and beautiful, that on the first publi-
cation of Macpherson's book, all the Irish cried out,
' We know all those poems. We have always heard
them from our infancy.' But when he asked more
particular questions, he could never learn that any
one had ever heard or could repeat the original of
any one paragraph of the pretended translation.
This generality, then, must be carefully guarded
against, as being of no authority.

• Your connexions among your brethren of the
clergy may be of great use to you. Vou may easily
learn the names of all ministers of that country who
understand the language of it. You may write to
them, expressing the doubts that have arisen, and
desiring them to send for such of the bards as re-
main, and make them rehearse their ancient poems.
Let the clergymen then have the translation in their
hands, and let them write back to you, and inform
you, that they heardsuch a one (naming him), living
in such a place, rehearse the original of such a
passage, from such a page to such a page of the
English translation, which appeared exact and
faithful. If you give to the public a sufficient
number of such testimonies you may prevail. But
I venture to foretel to you, that nothing less will
serve the purpose ; nothing less will' so much as
command the attention of the public.

* Becket tells me, that he is to give us a new edi-
tion of your Dissertation, accompanied with some
remarks on Temora. Here is a favourable oppor-
tunity for you to execute this purpose. You have
a just and laudable zeal for the credit of these
poems. They are, if genuine, one of the greatest
curiosities in all respects that ever was discovered in
the commonwealth of letters; and the child is, in a
manner, become yours by adoption, as Macpherson
has totally abandoned all care of it. These motives
call upon you to exert yourself; and I think it were
suitable to your candour, and most satisfactory also

* So in MS.

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 5

to the reader, to publish all the answers to all the
letters you write, even though some of those letters
should make somewhat against your own opinion
in this affair. We shall always be the more assured,
that no arguments are strained beyond their proper
force, and no contrary arguments suppressed, where
such an entire communication is made to us.
Becket joins me heartily in that application; and
he owns to me, that the believers in the authenticity
of the poems diminish every day among the men of
sense and reflection. Nothing less than what I pro-
pose can throw the balance on the other side.'

Lisle. Street, Leicester Fields,
19th Sept. 1763.

The second letter contains less matter of import-
ance ; but what there is that is relevant deserves
not to be omitted.

« I am very glad,' he writes on the 6th of October,
1763, ' you have undertaken the task which I used
the freedom to recommend to you. Nothing less
than what you propose will serve the purpose. You
need expect no assistance from Macpherson, who
flew into a passion when I told him of the letter I
had wrote to you. But you must not mind so
strange and heteroclite a mortal, than whom I have
scarce ever known a man more perverse and un-
amiable. He will probably depart for Florida with
governor Johnstone, and I would advise him to
travel among theChickisawsorCherokees, in order
to tame and civilize him.

* Since writing the above, I have been in company
with Mrs. Montague, a lady of great distinction in
this place, and a zealous partisan of Ossian. I told
her of your intention, and even used the freedom to
read your letter to her. She was extremely pleased
with your project ; and the rather, as the Due de
Nivernois, she said, had talked to her much on that
subject last winter ; and desired, if possible, to get
collected some proofs of the authenticity of these
poems, which he proposed to lay before the Aca-
demie de Belles Lettres at Paris. You see, then,

6 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.

that you are upon a great stage in this inquiry, and
that many people have their eyes upon you. This
is a new motive for rendering your proofs as com-
plete as possible. I cannot conceive any objection
which a man even of the gravest character could
have to your publication of his letters, which will
only attest a plain fact known to him. Such scruples,
if they occur, you must endeavour to remove, for
on this trial of yours will the judgment of the
public finally depend.' — — —

Without being acquainted with Hume's advice to
Dr. Blair, the Committee, composed of chosen
persons, and assisted by the best Celtic scholars,
adopted, as it will be seen, a very similar manner
of acting.

It conceived the purpose of its nomination to be,
to employ the influence of the society, and the exten-
sive communication which it possesses with every
part of the Highlands, in collecting what materials
or information it was still practicable to collect, re-
garding the authenticity and nature of the poems
ascribed to Ossian, and particularly of that celebrated
collection published by Mr. James Macpherson.

For the purposeabove-mentioned, the Committee,
soon after its appointment, circulated the following
set of Queries, through such parts of the Highlands
and Islands, and among such persons resident there,
as seemed most likely to afford the information
required.

QUERIES.

1. Have you ever heard repeated, or sung, any of
the poems ascribed to Ossian, translated and pub-
lished by Mr. Macpherson ? By whom "have you
heard them so repeated, and at what time or times ?
Did you ever commit any of them to writing ? or
can you remember them so well as now to set them
down ? In either of these cases, be so good to send
the Gaelic original to the Committee.

2. The same answer is requesfpd concerning any
other ancient poems of the same kind, and relating
to the same traditionary persons or stories with those
in Mr. Macpherson's collection.

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 7

3. Are any of the persons from whom you heard
any such poems now alive ? or are there, in your part
of the country, any persons who remember and can
repeat or recite such poems ? If there are, be so good
as to examine them as to the manner of their getting
or learning such compositions ; and set down, as ac-
curately as possible, such as they can now repeat or
recite; and transmit such their account, and such
compositions as they repeat, to the Committee.

4. If there are, in your neighbourhood, any per-
sons from whom Mr. Macpherson received any
poems, inquire particularly what the poems were
which he so received, the manner in which he re-
ceived them, and how he wrote them down; show
those persons, if you have an opportunity, his trans-
lation of such poems, and desire them to say, if
the translation is exact and literal; or, if it differs,
in what it differs from the poems, as they repeated
them to Mr. Macpherson, and can now recollect
them.

5. Be so good to procure every information you
conveniently can, with regard to the traditionary
belief, in the country in which you live, concerning
the history of Fingal and his followers, and that of
Ossian and his poems ; particularly those stories
and poems published by Mr. Macpherson, and the
heroes mentioned in them. Transmit any such
account, and any proverbial or traditionary ex-
pression in the original Gaelic, relating to the sub-
ject, to the Committee.

6. In all the above inquiries, or any that may
occur to in elucidation of this subject,
he is requested by the Committee to make the in-
quiry, and to take down the answers, with as much
impartiality and precision as possible, in the same
manner as if it were a legal question, and the proof

to be investigated with a legal strictness See the

•' Report.'

It is presumed, as undisputed, that a traditionary
history of a great hero or chief, called Fion, Fion
na Gael, or, as it is modernised, Fingal, exists,
and has immemorially existed, in the Highlands

8 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.

and Islands of Scotland, and that certain poems or
ballads containing the exploits of him and his as-
sociate heroes were the favourite love of the natives
of those districts. The general belief of the ex-
istence of such heroic personages, and the great poet
Ossian, the son of Fingal, by whom their exploits
were sung, is as universal in the Highlands as the
belief of any ancient fact whatsoever. It is re-
corded in proverhs, which pass through all ranks
and conditions of men. Ossian dall, blind Ossian *,
is a person as well known as strong Samson or wise
Solomon. The very boys in their sports cry out
for fair play, Cothram nafeine, the equal combat
of the Fingalians. Ossian, an deigh ?iam fiann,
Ossian, the last of his race, is proverbial, to sig-
nify a man who has had the misfortune to survive
his kindred ; and servants returning from a fair or
wedding were in use to describe the beauty of
young women whom they had seen there, by the
words, Tha i cho boidheuch reh Agandecca, ni-
ghcan ant sneachda, she is as beautiful as Agan-
decca, daughter of the Snow +.

All this will be readily conceded, and Mr. Mae-
pherson's being at one period an • indifferent pro-
ficient in the Gaelic language' may seem an argu-
ment of some weight against his having himself
composed these Ossianic Poems. Of his inaccuracy
in the Gaelic, a ludicrous instance is related in the
declaration of Mr. Ewan Macpherson, at Knock,
in Sleat, Sep. 11, 1800. He declares, that he,
« Colonel Macleod, of Talisker, and the late Mr.
Maclean, of Coll, embarked with Mr. Macpherson
for Uist on the same pursuit: that they landed at
Lochmaddy, and proceeded across the Muir to
Benbecula, the seat of the younger Clanronald :
that on their way thither, they fell in with a man
whom they afterwards ascertained to have been
Mac Codrum, the poet : that Mr. Macpherson asked
him the question, A bheil dad agad air an Fhcinn?
by which he meant to inquire, whether or not he

*Twp\o;y"Ofxrlpog. Lasearis Const,
t Report, p. 15.

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 9

knew any of the poems of Ossian relative to the
Fingalians ; but that the term in which the question
was asked strictly imported whether or not the
Fingalians owed him any thing ; and that Mac Co-
drum being a man of humour, took advantage of
the incorrectness or inelegance of the Gaelic in
which the question was put, and answered, that
really if they had owed him any thing, the bonds
and obligations were lost, and he believed any at-
tempt to recover them at that time of day would
be unavailing. Which sally of Mac Codrum's wit
seemed to have hurt Mr. Macpherson, who cut short
the conversation, and proceeded on towards Ben-
becula. And the declarant being asked whether or
not the late Mr. James Macpherson was capable of
composing such poems as those of Ossian, declares
most explicitly and positively that he is certain Mr.
Macpherson was as unequal to such compositions
as the declarant himself, who could no more make
them than take wings and fly.' P. 96.

We would here observe, that the sufficiency of a
man's knowledge of such a language as the Gaelic,
for all the purposes of composition, is not to be ques-
tioned, because he does not speak • it accurately or
elegantly, much less is it to be quibbled into suspi-
cion by the pleasantry of a double entendre. But
we hold it prudent, and it shall be our endeavour
in this place, to give no decided opinion on the main
subject of dispute. For us the contention shall still
remain subjudice.

To the Queries circulated through such parts of
the Highlands as the Committee imagined most
likely to afford information in reply to them, they
received many answers, most of which were con-

* We doubt not that Mr. Professor Porson could,
if he pleased, forge a short poem in Greek, and as-
cribing it, for instance, to Theocritus, maintain its
authenticity with considerable force and probability;
and yet were it possible for him to speak to the sim-
plest shepherd of ancient Greece, he would quickly ■
afford as good reason as Mr- M. to be suspected of
being an « indifferent proficient' in the language.
B2

10 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE,
ceived in nearly similar terms ; that the persons
themselves had never doubted of the existence of
such poems as Mr. Macpherson had translated ; that
they had heard many of them repeated in their
youth : that listening to them was the favourite
amusement of Highlanders in the hours of leisure
and idleness; but that since the rebellion in 1745,
the manners of the people had undergone a change
so unfavourable to the recitation of these poems,
that it was now an amusement scarcely known, and
that very few persons remained alive who were able
to recite them. That many of the poems which
they had formerly heard were similar in subject and
story, as well as in the names of the heroes men-
tioned in them, to those translated by Mr. Mac-
pherson : that his translation seemed, to such as
had read it, a very able one ; but that it did not by
any mean3 come up to the force or energy of the
original to such as had read it ; for his book was by
no means universally possessed, or read among the
Highlanders, even accustomed to reading, who con-
ceived that his translation could add but little to
their amusement, and not at all to their conviction,
in a matter which they had never doubted. A few
of the Committee's correspondents sent them such
ancient poems as they possessed in writing, from
having formerly taken them down from the oral
recitation of the old Highlanders who were in use
to recite them, or as they now took them down
from some person, whom a very advanced period
of life, or a particular connexion with some reciter
of the old school, enabled still to retain them in
his memory*; but those, the Committee's corre-

* The Rev. Mr. Smith, who has published trans-
lations of many Gaelic poems, accompanied by the
originals, assures us, that ' near himself, in the
parish of Klimnver, lived a person named M'Pheal,
whom he has heard, for weeks together, from five
till ten o'clock at night, rehearse ancient poems,
and many of them Ossian's. Two others, called
M'Dugal and M'Neil, could entertain their hearers
in the same manner for a whole winter season. It

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. U

spondents said, were generally less perfect, and more
corrupted, than the poems which they had formerly
heard, or which might have been obtained at an
earlier period *.

Several collections came to them, by presents, as
well as by purchase, and in these are numerous
« shreds and patches,' that bear a strong resemblance
to the materials of which ' Ossian's Poems' are com-
posed. These are of various degrees of consequence.
One of them we are the more tempted to give, for
the same reason as the Committee was the more
solicitous to procure it, because it was one which
some of the opposers of the authenticity of Ossian
had quoted as evidently spurious, betraying the
most convincing marks of its being a close imitation
of the Address to the Sun in Milton.

*I got,' says Mr. Mac Diarmidf, 'the copy of
these poems,' (Ossian's Address to the Sun in Car-
thon, and a similar address in Carrickthura)' about
thirty years ago, from an old man in Glenlyon. I
took it, and several other fragments, now, I fear,
irrecoverably lost, from the man's mouth. He had
learnt them in his youth from people in the same
glen, which must have been long before Maepherson
was born.'

Literal translation of Ossian's Address to the
Sun in Carthon.
' O ! thou who travellest above, round as the full-
orbed hard shield of the mighty ! whence is thy
brightness without frown, thy light that is lasting, O
sun ? Thou comest forth in thy powerful beauty,
and the stars hide their course; the moon, without
strength, goes from the sky, hiding herself under a
wave in the west. Thou art in thy journey alone ;
who is so bold as to come nigh thee ? The oak falleth
from the high mountain ; the rock and the precipice
fall under old age; the ocean ebbeth and floweth,

was from persons of this description, undoubtedly,

that Maepherson recovered a great part of the works

of Ossian.' A. Macdonald's Prelim. Disc. p. 76.

* See Report. f Date, April 9, 1801, p. 71.

12 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.

the moon is lost above in the sky ; but thou alone
for ever in victory, in the rejoicing of thy own light.
■When the storm darkeneth around the world, with
fierce thunder, and piercing lightnings, thou lookest
in thy beauty from the noise, smiling in the troubled
sky ! To me is thy light in vain, as I can never see
thy countenance ; though thy yellow golden locks
are spread on the face of the clouds in the east ; or
when thou tremblest in the west, at thy dusky doors
in the ocean. Perhaps thou and myself are at one
time mighty, at another feeble, our years sliding
down from the skies, quickly travelling together to
their end. Rejoice then, O sun ! while thou art
strong, O king ! in thy youth. Dark and unpleasant
is old age, like the vain and feeble light of the moon,
while she looks through a cloud on the field, and her
gray mist on the sides of the rocks ; a blast from the
north on the plain,a traveller in distress,and he slow.'

The comparison may be made, by turning to the
end of Mr. Macpherson's version of « Carthon,' be-
ginning ' O thou that rollest above.''

But it must not be concealed, that after all the ex-
ertions of the Committee, it has not been able to ob-
tain any one poem, the same in title and tenor with
the poems published by him. We therefore feel that
the reader of ' Ossian's Poems,' until grounds more
relative be produced, will often, in the perusal of
Mr. M.'s translations, be induced, with some show
of justice, to exclaim with him, when he looked
over the manuscript copies found in Clanronald's
family, « D — n the scoundrel, it is he himself that
now speaks, and not Ossian *.'

To this sentiment the Committee has the candour
to incline, as it will appear by their summing up.
After producing or pointing to a large body of mixed
evidence, and taking for granted the existence, at
some period, of an abundance of Ossianic poetry, it
comes to the question, « How far that collection of
such poetry, published by Mr. James Macpherson,
is genuine ?' To answer this query decisively, is,

* Report, p. 44.

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 13

as they confess, difficult. This, however, is the
ingenuous manner in which they treat it.

■ The Committee is possessed of no documents,
to show how much of his collection Mr. Maepher-
son obtained in the form in which he has given it
to the world, The poems and fragments of poems
which the Committee has been able to procure
contain, as will appear from the article in the Ap-
pendix (No. 15.) already mentioned, often the sub-
stance, and sometimes almost the literal expression
(the ipsissima verba), of passages given by Mr.
Macpherson, in the poems of which he has pub-
lished the translations. But the Committee has not
been able to obtain any one poem the same in title
or tenor with the poems published by him. It is
inclined to believe, that he was in use to supply
chasms, and to give connexion, by inserting pass-
ages which he did not find, and to add what he
conceived to be dignity and delicacy to the original
composition, by striking out passages, by softening
incidents, by refining the language, in short, by
changing what he considered as too simple or too
rude for a modern ear, and elevating what, in his
opinion, was below the standard of good poetry.
To what degree, however, he exercised these liber-
ties, it is impossible for the Committee to deter-
mine. The advantages he possessed, which the
Committee began its inquiries too late to enjoy, of
collecting from the oral recitation of a number of
persons, now no more, a very great number of the
same poems on the same subjects, and then col-
. lating those different copies, or editions, if they
may be so called, rejecting what was spurious or
corrupted in one copy, and adopting from another
something more genuine and excellent in its place,
afforded him an opportunity of putting together
what might fairly enough be called an original
whole, of much more beauty, and with much fewer
blemishes, than the Committee believe it now pos-
sible for any person, or combination of persons, to
obtain.' P. 152—3.

Some Scotch critics, who should not be ignorant
of the strong-holds and fastnesses of the advocates

14 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE,
for the authenticity of these Poems, appear so con-
vinced of their insufficiency, that they pronounce
the question put to rest for ever. But we greatly
distrust that any literary question, possessing a
single inch of debatable ground to stand upon, will
be suffered to enjoy much rest in an age like the
present. There are as many minds as men, and of
wranglers there is no end. Behold another and
• another yet,' and in our imagination, he —
* bears a glass,
Which shows us many more.'
The first of these is Mr. Laing, who has recently
published " The Poems of Ossian, &c. containing
the Poetical Works of James Macpherson, Esq. in
Prose and Rhyme: with Notes and Illustrations.
In 2 vols. 8vo. Edinburgh, 1805.' In these
' Notes and Illustrations,' we foresee, that Ossian
is likely to share the fate of Shakspeare : that is,
ultimately to be loaded and oppressed by heavy
commentators until his immortal spirit groan be-
neath vast heaps of perishable matter. The object
of Mr. Laing's commentary, after having elsewhere «
endeavoured to show that the Poems are spurious,
and of no historical authority, * is,' says he, • not
merely to exhibit parallel passages, much less in-
stances of a fortuitous resemblance of ideas, but
to produce the precise originals from which the
similes and images are indisputably derived f.' And
these he pretends to find in Holy Writ, and in the
classical poets, both of ancient and modern times.
Mr. Laing, however, is one of those detectors of
plagiarisms and discoverers of coincidences, whose
exquisite penetration and acuteness can find any
thing any where. Dr. Johnson, who was shut
against conviction with respect to Ossian, even
when he affected to seek the truth in the heart of
the Hebrides, may yet be made useful to the
Ossianitcs in canvassing the merits of this re-

• In his Critical and Historical Dissertation on
the Antiquity of Ossian's Poems,
t Pref. p. v.

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 15

doubted stickler on the side of opposition. « Among
the innumerable practices,' says the Rambler *, « by
which interest or envy have taught those who live
upon literary fame to disturb each other at their airy
banquets, one of the most common is the charge of
plagiarism. When the excellence of a new com-
position can no longer be contested, and malice is
compelled to give way to the unanimity of ap-
plause, there is yet this one expedient to be tried,
by which the author may be degraded, though his
work be reverenced ; and the excellence which we
cannot obscure, may be set at such a distance as
not to overpower our fainter lustre. This accusa-
tion is dangerous, because, even when it is false, it
may be sometimes urged with probability.'

How far this just sentence applies to Mr. Laing,
it does not become us, nor is it our business, now
to declare: but we must say, that nothing can be
more disingenuous or groundless than his frequent
charges of plagiarism of the following description :
because, in the War ofCaros, we meet with these
words : — ' It is like the field, when darkness covers
the hills around, and the shadow grows slowly on
the plain of the sun,' we are to believe, according to
Mr. Laing, that the idea was stolen from Virgil's —

Mujorcsqne cadu/ct aids dc monlibus umbra.
For see, yon sunny hills the shade extend.

Dry den.

As well might we credit that no one ever beheld a
natural phenomenon except the Mantuan bard f-
The book of nature is open to all, and in her pages
there are no new readings. ' Many subjects,' it is
well said by Johnson, ' fall under the consideration
of an author, which being limited by nature, can

* No. 143.

t This is not so good, because not so amusing in
its absurdity, as an attempt formerly made to prove
the JEneid Erse, from « Arma virumque cano,' and
' Airm's am fear canam,' having the same meaning,
and nearly the same sound.

16 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE,
admit only of slight and accidental diversities. All
definitions of the same thing must he nearly the
same; and descriptions, which are definitions of a
more lax and fanciful kind, must always have, in
some degree, that resemblance to each other which
they all have to their object.'

It is true, however, if we were fully able to admit
that Macpherson could not have obtained these
ideas where he professes to have found them, Mr.
Laing has produced many instances of such re-
markable coincidence as would make it probable
that Macpherson frequently translates, not the
Gaelic, but the poetical lore of antiquity. Still this
is a battery that can only be brought to play on
particular points ; and then with great uncertainty.
The mode of attack used by Mr. Knight, could it
have been carried on to any extent, would have
proved much more effectual. We shall give the
instance alluded to. In his ' Analytical Enquiry
into the Principles of Taste, 1805,' he makes these
remarks :

' The untutored, but uncorrupted feelings of all
unpolished nations, have regulated their fictions
upon the same principles, even when most rudely
exhibited. In relating the actions of their gods and
deceased heroes, they are licentiously extravagant ;
for there falsehood could amuse, because it could
not be detected : but in describing the common ap-
pearances of nature, and all those objects and effects
which are exposed to habitual observation, their
bards are scrupulously exact ; so that an extrava-
gant hyperbole, in a matter of this kind, is suf-
ficient to mark as counterfeit any composition at-
tributed to them. In the early stages of society,
men are as acute and accurate in practical observa-
tion as they are limited and deficient in speculative
science ; and in proportion as they are ready to give
up their imaginations to delusion, they are jea-
lously tenacious of the evidence of their senses.
James Macpherson, in the person of his blind bard,
could say, with applause, in the eighteenth century,
* Thus have I seen in Cona; but Cona I behold no
more; thus have I seen two dark hills removed

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 17

from their place by the strength of the mountain
stream. They turn from side to side, and their
tall oaks meet one another on high. Then they
fall together with all their rocks and trees.'

' But had a blind bard, or any other bard, pre-
sumed to utter such a rhapsody of bombast in the
hall of shells, amid the savage warriors to whom
Ossian is supposed to have sung, he would have
needed all the influence of royal birth, attributed
to that fabulous personage, to restrain the au-
dience from throwing their shells at his head,
and hooting him out of their company as an im-
pudent liar. They must have been sufficiently ac-
quainted with the rivulets of Cona or Glen-Coe to
know that he had seen nothing of the kind ; and
have known enough of mountain torrents in general
to know that no such effects are ever produced by
them ; and would, therefore, have indignantly re-
jected such a barefaced attempt to impose on their
credulity.'

The best defence that can be set up in this case
will, perhaps, be to repeat, ' It is he himself that
now speaks, and not Ossian.'

Mr. Laing had scarcely thrown down the gaunt-
let, when Mr. Archibald M'Donald* appeared

• Ready, aye ready f, for the field.'
The opinion of the colour of his opposition, whe-
ther it be that of truth or error, will depend on the
eye that contemplates it. Those who delight to feast
with Mr. Laing on the limbs of a mangled poet,
will think the latter unanswered ; while those % who

• * Some of Ossian's lesser poems, rendered into
verse, with a preliminary discourse, in answer to
Mr. Laing's Critical and Historical Dissertation on
the Antiquity of Ossian's Poems. 8vo. p. 284.
Liverpool, 1805.'

t Thirlestane's motto. See Scott's Lay of the
Last Minstrel.

X A Professor in the University of Edinburgh, the
amiable and learned Dr. Gregory, is on the side of
the believers in Ossian. His judgment is a tower of

18 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE,
continue to indulge the animating thought, * that
Fingal lived, and that Ossian sung,' will entertain
a different sentiment- After successfully combating
several old positions*, Mr. M 'Donald terminates
his discussion of the point at issue with these words :

' He (Mr. Laing) declares, ' if a single poem of
Ossian in MS. of an older date than the present cen-
tury (1700), be procured and lodged in a public
library, I (Laing) shall return among the first to
our national creed.'

« This is reducing the point at issue to a narrow
compass. Had the proposal been made at the out-
set, it would have saved both him and me a great
deal of trouble : not that in regard to ancient Gaelic
manuscripts I could give any more satisfactory ac-
count than has been done in the course of this dis-
course. There the reader will see, that though
some of the poems are confessedly procured from
oral tradition, yet several gentlemen of veracity
attest to have seen, among Macpherson's papers,
several MSS. of a much older date than Mr. Laing
requires to be convinced. Though not more cre-
dulous than my neighbours, I cannot resist facts so
well attested ; there are no stronger for believing
the best-established human transactions.

* I understand the originals are in the press, and
expected daily to make their appearance. When
they do, the public will not be carried away by con-
jectures, but be able to judge on solid grounds.
Till then, let the discussion on this subject be at
rest.' P. KJ3—4.

strength. See the Preface, p. vi. to xii. and p. 146,
of his Comparative View of the State and Faculties
of Man with those of the Animal World.

* Such as the silence of Ossian in respect to re-
ligion; his omission of wolves and bears, &c. See
also, in the Literary Journal, August, 1804, a
powerful encounter of many of Mr. L.'s other ar-
guments in his Dissertation against the authenticity
of these poems. His ignorance of the Gaelic, and
the consequent futility of his etymological remarks,
are there ably exposed.

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 19

It is curious to remark, and, in this place, not
unworthy of our notice, that whilst the controversy-
is imminent in the decision, whether these poems
are to be ascribed to a Highland bard long since
gone 'to the halls of his fathers,' or to a Lowland
muse of the last century, it is in the serious medi-
tation of some controversialist to step in and place
the disputed wreath on the brows of Hibernia.
There is no doubt that Ireland was, in ancient
times, so much connected with the adjacent coast
of Scotland, that they might almost be considered
as one country, having a community of manners
and of language, as well as the closest political con-
nexion. Their poetical language is nearly, or ra-
ther altogether, the same. These coinciding cir-
cumstances, therefore, independent of all other
ground, afford to ingenuity, in the present state of
the question, a sufficient basis for the erection of
an hypothetical superstructure of a very imposing
nature.

In a small volume published at Dusseldorf in
1787, by Edmond, Baron de Harold, an Irishman,
of endless titles », we are presented with what are
called * Poems of Ossian lately discovered +.'

« I am interested,' says the Baron in his Preface,
' in no polemical dispute or party, and give these
poems such as they are found in the mouths of the
people ; and do not pretend to ascertain what was
the native country of Ossian. I honour and revere
equally a bard of his exalted talents, were he born

* ' Colonel-Commander of the regiment of Ko-
nigsfeld, Gentleman of the Bedchamber of his
most serene highness the Elector Palatin, Member
of the German Society of Manheim, of the Royal
Antiquarian Society of London, and of the Aca-
demy of Dusseldorf.'

t In some lines in these poems we find the lyre
of Ossian called ' the old Hibernian lyre.' The idea
is not new. See Burke's Observation in Hume's
first Letter to Dr. Blair. Also, the Collections by
Miss Brooke and Mr. Kennedy. Compare the Story
of Conloch with that of Carthon in Macpherson.

20 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.

in Ireland or in Scotland. It is certain that the
Scotch and Irish were united at some early period.
That they proceed from the same origin is in-
disputable; nay, I believe that it is proved beyond
any possibility of negating it, that the Scotch de-
rive their origin from the Irish. This truth has
been brought in question but of late days ; and all
ancient tradition, and the general consent of the
Scotch nation, and of their oldest historians, agree
to confirm the certitude of this assertion. If any
man still doubts of it, he will find, in Macgeoge-
han's History of Ireland, an entire conviction esta-
blished by the most elaborate discussion, and most
incontrovertible proofs :' pp. v. vi.

We shall not stay to quarrel about ' Sir Archy's
great-grandmother*,' or to contend that Fingal,
the Irish giant f, did not one day go 'over from

* See Macklin's Love a-la-mode.

t ' Selma is not at all known in Scotland. When
I asked, and particularly those who were possessed
of any poetry, songs, or tales, who Fion was? (for
he is not known by the name of Fingal, by any;)
I was answered, that he was an Irishman, if a man ;
for they sometimes thought him a giant, and that
he lived in Ireland, and sometimes came over to
hunt in the Highlands.

' Like a true Scotchman, in order to make his
composition more acceptable to his countrymen,
Mr. Macpherson changes the name of Fion Mac
Cumhal, the Irishman, into Fingal; which, in-
deed, sounds much better; and sets him up a
Scotch king over the ideal kingdom of Morven in
the west of Scotland. It had been a better argu-
ment for the authenticity, if he had allowed him
to be an Irishman, and made Morven an Irish king-
dom, as well as make Ireland the scene of his bat-
tles ; but, as he must need make the hero of an epic
poem a great character, it was too great honour for
any other country but Scotland to have given birth
to so considerable a personage. All the authentic
histories of Ireland give a full account of Fingal or
Fion Mac Cumhal's actions ; and any one who will

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 21
Carrickfergus, and people all Scotland with his own
hands,' and make these sons of the north « illegiti-
mate ;' but we may observe, that from the inclina-
tion of the Baron's opinion, added to the internal
evidence of his poems, there appears at least as
much reason to believe their author to have been a
native of Ireland as of Scotland. The success with
which Macpherson's endeavours had been rewarded,
induced the Baron to inquire whether any more of
this kind of poetry could be obtained. His search,
he confesses, would have proved fruitless had he
expected to find complete pieces; * for certainly,'
says he, ' none such exist. But,' he adds, • in seek-
ing with assiduity and care, I found, by the help of
my friends, several fragments of old traditionary
songs, which were very sublime, and particularly
remarkable for their simplicity and elegance.' P. iv.
' From these fragments,' continues Baron de Ha-
rold, ' I have composed the following poems. They
are all founded on tradition ; but the dress they now
appear in is mine. It will appear singular to some,
that Ossian, at times, especially in the songs of
Comfort, seems rather to be an Hibernian than a
Scotchman, and that some of these poems formally
contradict passages of great importance in those

take the trouble to look at Dr. Keating, or any other
history of that country, will find the matter related
as above: whereas, in the Chronicon Scotorum,
from which the list of the Scotch kings is taken,
and the pretended MSS. they so much boast of to
be seen in the Hebrides, there is not one syllable
said of such a name as Fingal.' — An Enquiry into
the Authenticity of the Poems of Ossian. By W.
Shaw, A.M. F.S.A. Author of the Gaelic Diction-
ary and Grammar. London, l"8l.

Mr. Shaw crowns his want of faith in Macpher-
son's Ossian with this piece of information. •" A
gentleman promised to ornament a scalloped shell
with silver, if I should bring him one from the
Highlands, and to swear that it was the identical
shell out of which Fingal used to drink.' — A gen-
tleman !

22 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE,
handed to the public by Mr. Macpherson, especially
that very remarkable one of Evir-allen, where the
description of her marriage with Ossian is essen-
tially different in all its parts from that given in the
former poems.' P. v.

We refer the reader to the opening of the fourth
book of Fingal, which treats of Ossiau's courtship
of Evir-allen. The Evir-allen of Baron de Harold
is in these words :

EVIR-ALLEN :

Thou fairest of the maids of Morven, young
beam of streamy Lutha, come to the help of the
aged, come to the help of the distressed. Thy soul
is open to pity. Friendship glows in thy tender
breast. Ah come and sooth away my woe. Thy
words are music to my soul.

Bring me my once-lov'd harp. It hangs long neg-
lected in my hall The stream of years has borne
me away in its course, and roll'd away all my bliss.
Dim and faded are my eyes ; thin-strewed with
hairs my head. Weak is that nervous arm once
the terror of foes. Scarce can I grasp my staff, the
prop of my trembling limbs.

Lead me to yonder craggy steep. The murmur
of the falling streams ; the whistling winds rushing
through the woods of my hills; the welcome rays
of the bounteous sun will soon awake the voice of
song in my breast. The thoughts of former years
glide over my soul like swift-shooting meteors o'er
Ardven's gloomy vales.

Come, ye friends of my youth, ye soft-sounding
voices of Cona, bend from your gold-ting'd clouds,
and join me in my song. A mighty blaze is kindled
in my soul. I hear a powerful voice. It says, ' Seize
thy beam of glory, O bard ! for thou shalt soon de-
part. Soon shall the light of song be faded. Soon
thy tuneful voice forgotten.' — ' Yes, I obey, O pow-
erful voice, for thou art pleasing to mine ear.'

O Evir-allen ! thou boast of Erin's maids, thy
thoughts come streaming on my soul. Hear, O

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 23
Malvina ! a talc of my youth, the actions of my
former days.

Peace reign'd over Morven's hills. The shell of
joy resounded in our halls. Round the blaze of the
oak sported in festive dance the maids of Morven
They shone like the radiant bow of heaven, when
the fiery rays of the setting sun brighten its varied
sides. They wooed me to their love, but my heart
was silent, cold. Indifference, like a brazen shield,
covered my frozen heart.

Fingal saw, he smil'd and mildly spoke : J My sons
the down of youth grows on thy cheek. Thy arm
has wielded the spear of war. Foes have felt thy
force. Morven's maids are fair, but fairer are the
daughters of Erin. Go to that happy isle ; to Bran-
no's grass-cover'd fields. The daughter of my friend
deserves thy love. Majestic beauty flows around her
as a robe, and innocence as a precious veil heightens
her youthful charms. Go take thy arms, and win
the lovely fair.'

Straight I obey'd. A chosen band followed my
steps. We mounted the dark-bosomed ship of the
king, spread its white sails to the winds, and
plough'd through the foam of ocean. Pleasant shone
the fine-eyed Ull-Erin*. With joyal songs we cut
the liquid way. The moon, regent of the silent night,
gleamed majestic in the blue vault of heaven, and
seemed pleased to bathe her side in the trembling
wave. My soul was full of my father's words. A
thousand thoughts divided my wavering mind.

Soon as the early beam of morn appeared, we
saw the green skirted sides of Erin advancing in
the bosom of the sea. White broke the tumbling
surges on the coast.

Deep in Larmor's woody bay we drove our keel
to the shore, and gained the lofty beach. I inquired
after the generous Branno. A son of Erin led us to
his halls, to the banks of the sounding Lego. He
said, « Many warlike youths are assembled to gain
the dark-haired maid, the beauteous Evir-allen.
Branno will give her to the brave. The conqueror

* The guiding star to Ireland.

'24 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.

shall bear away the fair. Erin's chiefs dispute the
maid, for she is destined for the strong in arms.'

These words inflamed my breast, and roused
courage in my heart. I clad my limbs in steel. I
grasped a shining spear in my hand. Branno saw
our approach. He sent the gray-haired Snivan to
invite us to his feast, and know the intent of our
course. He came with the solemn steps of age, and
gravely spoke the words of the chief.

« Whence are these arms of steel ? If friends ye
come, Branno invites you to his halls ; for this day
the lovely Evir-allen shall bless the warrior's arms
whose lance shall shine victorious in the combat of
valour.'

' O venerable bard,' I said, ' peace guides my
steps to Branno. My arm is young, and few are
my deeds in war, but valour inflames my soul; I
am of the race of the brave.'

The bard departed. We followed the steps of
age, and soon arrived to Branno's halls.

The hero came to meet us. Manly serenity
adorned his brow. His open front showed the
kindness of his heart. ' Welcome,' he said, * ye
sons of strangers; welcome to Branno's friendly
halls ; partake his shell of joy. Share in the com-
bat of spears. Not unworthy is the prize of valour,
the lovely dark-haired maid of Erin ; but strong
must be that warrior's hand that conquers Erin's
chiefs ; matchless his strength in fight.'

« Chief,' I replied, ' the light of my father's deeds
blazes in my soul. Though young, I seek my beam
of glory foremost in the ranks of foes. Warrior,
I can fall, but I shall fall with renown.'

' Happy is thy father, O generous youth ! more
happy the maid, of thy love. Thy glory shall sur-
round her with praise; thy valour raise her charms.
O were my Evir-allen thy spouse, my years would
pass away in joy. Pleased I would descend into the
grave: contented see the end of my day.--.'

The feast was spread : stately and slow came
Evir-allen. A snow-white veil covered her blush-
ing face. Her large blue eyes were bent on earth.
Dignity flowed round her graceful steps. A shining

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 25

tear fell glittering on her cheek. She appeared
lovely as the mountain flower when the ruddy
beams of the rising sun gleam on its dew-covered
sides. Decent she sate. High beat my fluttering
heart. Swift through my veins flew my thrilling
blood. An unusual weight oppressed my breast.
I stood, darkened, in my place. The image of the
maid wandered over my troubled soul.

The sprightly harp's melodious voice arose from
the strings of the bards. My soul melted away in
the sounds, for my heart, like a stream, flowed
gently away in song. Murmurs soon broke upon
our joy. Half-unsheathed daggers gleamed. Many
a voice was heard abrupt. ' Shall the son of the
strangers be preferred ? Soon shall he be rolled
away, like mist, by the rushing breath of the tem-
pest.' Sedate I rose, for I despised the boasters'
threats. The fair one's eye followed my departure.
I heard a smothered sigh burst from her breast.

The horn's harsh sound summoned us to the
doubtful strife of spears. Lothmar, fierce hunter
of the woody Galmal, first opposed his might. He
vainly insulted my youth, but my sword cleft his
brazen shield, and cut his ashen lance in twain.
Straight I withheld my descending blade. Lothmar
retired confused.

Then rose the red-haired strength of Sulin. Fierce
rolled his deep-sunk eye. His shaggy brows stood
erect. His face was contracted with scorn. Thrice
his spear pierced my buckler. Thrice his sword
struck on my helm. Swift flashes gleamed from our
circling blades. The pride of my rage arose. Furi-
ous I rushed on the chief, and stretched his bulk on
the plain. Groaning he fell to earth. Lego's shores
re-echoed from his fall.

Then advanced Cormac, graceful in glittering
arms. No fairer youth was seen on Erin's grassy
hills. His age was equal to mine ; his port majestic ;
his stature tall and slender, like the young shooting
poplar in Lutha's streamy vales; but sorrow sate
upon his brow ; languor reigned on his cheek. My
heart inclined to the youth. My sword oft avoided to
wound ; often sought to save his days : but he rushed

26 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE,
eager on death. He fell. Blood gushed from his pant-
ing breast. Tears flowed streaming from mine eyes.
I stretched forth my hand to the chief. I proffered
gentle words of peace. Faintly he seized my hand.
« Stranger,' he said, ' I willingly die, for my days
were oppressed with woe. Evir-allen rejected my
love. She slighted my tender suit. Thou alone
deservest the maid, for pity reigns in thy soul, and
thou art generous and brave. Tell her, I forgive
her scorn. . Tell her, I descend with joy into the
grave; but raise the stone of my praise. Let the
maid throw a flower on my tomb, and mingle one
tear with my dust, — this is my sole request. This
she can grant to my shade.'

I would have spoken, but broken sighs issuing
from my breast, interrupted my faltering words.
I threw my spear aside. I clasped the youth in my
arms : but, alas ! his soul was already departed to
the cloudy mansions of his fathers.

Then thrice I raised my voice, and called the
chiefs to combat. Thrice I brandished my spear,
and wielded my glittering sword. No warrior ap-
peared. They dreaded the force of my arm, and
yielded the blue-eyed maid.

Three days I remained in Branno's halls. On the
fourth he led me to the chambers of the fair. She
came forth attended by her maids, graceful in
lovely majesty, like the moon, when all the stars
confess her sway, and retire respectful and abashed.
I laid my sword at her feet. Words of love flowed
faltering from my tongue. Gently she gave her
hand. Joy seized my enraptured soul. Branno
was touched at the sight. He closed me in his aged
arms.

« O wert thou,' said he, « the son of my friend,
the son of the mighty Fingal, then were my hap-
piness complete.'

* I am, I am the son of thy friend,' I replied,
' Ossian, the son of Fingal,' then sunk upon his
aged breast. Our flowing tears mingled together.
We remained long clasped in each other's arms.

Such was my youth, O Malvina ! but alas I am
now forlorn. Darkness covers my soul. Yet the ;

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 27

light of song beams at times on my mind. It so-
laces awhile my woe.

Bards, prepare my tomb. Lay me by the fair
Evir-allen. When the revolving years bring back
the mild season of spring to our hills, sing the
praise of Cona's bard, of Ossian, the friend of the
distressed.

The difference, in many material circumstances,
between these two descriptions of, as it would seem,
the same thing, must be very apparent. • I will
submit,' says the baron, ' the solution of this pro-
blem to the public' We shall follow his example.

The Honourable Henry Grattan, Esq. to whom
the baron dedicates his work, has said, that the
poems which it contains are calculated to inspire
* valour, wisdom, and virtue.' It is true, that they
are adorned with numerous beauties both of poetry
and morality. They are still farther distinguished
and illumined by noble allusions to the Omnipotent,
which cannot fail to strike the reader as a particular
in which they remarkably vary from those of Mr.
Macpherson. • In his,' says our author, • there is
no mention of the Divinity. In these, the chief
characteristic is, the many solemn descriptions of
the Almighty Being, which give a degree of ele-
vation to them unattainable by any other method.
It is worthy of observation how the bard gains in
sublimity by his magnificent display of the power,
bounty, eternity, and justice of God: and every
reader must rejoice to find the venerable old war-
rior occupied in descriptions so worthy his great
and comprehensive genius, and to see him freed
from the imputation of atheism, with which he had
been branded by many sagacious and impartial
men.' P. vi.

Wre could willingly transcribe more of these
poems ; but we have already quoted enough to show
the style of them, and can spare space for no addi-
tions. « Lamor, a poem,' is, the baron thinks, of
a more ancient date than that of Ossian, and « the
model, perhaps, of his compositions.' Another,

28 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE.

called * Sitric,' king of Dublin, which throws some
light on the history of those times, he places in the
ninth century. What faith, however, is to be put
in the genuineness of the ' Fragments *,' which
baron de Harold assures us furnished him with the
ground-work of these poems, we leave it to others
to ascertain. Our investigation is confined within
far narrower limits.

It has, without doubt, been observed, that in
noticing what has transpired on this subject since
our last edition, we have carefully avoided any dog-
matism on the question collectedly ; and having
simply displayed a torch to show the paths which
lead to the labyrinth, those who wish to venture
more deeply into its intricacies, may, when they
please, pursue them.

We must acknowledge, before we depart, that we
cannot see without indignation, or rather pity, the
belief of some persons that these poems are the
offspring of Macpherson's genius, so operating on
their minds as to turn their admiration of the an-
cient poet into contempt of the modern. We our-
selves love antiquity, not merely however on ac-

* If Mr. Laing should choose to take the trouble
of passing them through his alembic, they may
easily be disposed of. For instance : ' Larnul, or
the Song of Despair.'

« The dreary night owl screams in the solitary
retreat of his mouldering ivy-covered tower,' p. l63.
Taken from the Persian poet quoted by Gibbon :
' The owl hath sung her watch-song in the towers
of Afrasiab.'

' All nature is consonant to the horrors of my
mind.' Larnul, p. l6.3. Evidently from the Rhyth-
mas of the Portuguese poet. One in despair calls
the desolation of nature

* lugar conforme a meu cuidado.'

Obras de Camoens, t. iii. p. 115.

Mr. Laing may pronounce this learned, but it is
at any rate as foolish as it is learned.

A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE. 29

count of its antiquity, but because it deserves to be
loved. No; we honestly own with Quintilian, in
quibusdam antiquorum vixrisvm,in quibusdam
uulcm vix somnum tenere*. The songs of other
times, when they are, as they frequently are, su-
premely beautiful, merit every praise, but we must
not therefore despise all novelty. In the days of
the Theban bard, it would seem to have been other-
wise, for he appears to give the preference to old
wine, but new songs —

tt.ii/ei §£ TratXaiov
fxvj oivov, an$eo
VEùtre§oiYf

With respect to age in wine we are tolerably
agreed, but we differ widely in regard to novelty in
verse. Though warranted in some measure, yet all
inordinate prepossessions should be moderated, and
it would be well if we were occasionally to reflect
on this question, If the ancients had been so ini-
mical to novelty as we are, what would now be old t?
We shall not presume to affirm that these poems
were originally produced by Macpherson, but ad-
mitting it, for the sake of argument, it would then
perhaps be just to ascribe all the mystery that has
hung about them to the often ungenerous dislike
of novelty, or, it may be more truly, the efforts of
our contemporaries, which influence the present
day. This might have stimulated him to seek in
the garb of ' th' olden time' that respect which is
sometimes despitefully denied to drapery of a later
date. Such a motive doubtlessly swayed the designs
both of Chatterton and Ireland, whose names we
cannot mention together without Dryden's comment
on Spenser and Flecknoe, « that is, from the top to
the bottom of all poetry.' In ushering into the
world the hapless, but beautiful muse of Chatterton,
as well as the contemptible compositions of Ireland,
it was alike thought necessary, to secure public at-
tention, to have recourse to ' quaint Inglis,' or an

* Quintilian or Tacitus de Oratoribus.
t See Horace.

30 A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE,
antique dress. And to the eternal disgrace of pre-
judice, the latter, merely in consequence of their
disguise, found men blind enough to advocate their
claims to that admiration which, on their eyes
being opened, they could no longer see, and from
the support of which they shrunk abashed.

But we desist. It is useless to draw conclusions,
as it is vain to reason, with certain people who act
unreasonably, since, if they were, in these particular
cases, capable of reason , they would need no reason-
ing with. By some, the poems here published will
be esteemed in proportion as the argument for their
antiquity prevails ; but with regard to the general
reader, and the unaffected lovers of « heaven-de-
scended poesy,' let the question take either way,
still

The harp in Selma was not idly strung,

And long shall last the themes our Poet sung.

15ERKATHON.

PREFACE.

WITHOUT increasing his genius, the Author may
have improved his language, in the eleven years
that the following Poems have been in the hands
of the public. Errors in diction might have been
committed at twenty-four, which the experience of
a riper age may remove; and some exuberances in
imagery may be restrained with advantage, by a
degree of judgment acquired in the progress of
time. Impressed with this opinion he ran over the
whole with attention and accuracy ; and he hopes
he has brought the work to a state of correctness
which will preclude all future improvements.

The eagerness with which these poems have been
received abroad, is a recompense for the coldness
with which a few have affected to treat them at
home. All the polite nations of Europe have trans-
ferred them into their respective languages ; and
they speak of him who brought them to light in
terms that might flatter the vanity of one fond of
fame. In a convenient indifference for a literary
reputation, the Author hears praise without being
elevated, and ribaldry without being depressed.
He has frequently seen the first bestowed too pre-
cipitately ; and the latter is so faithless to its pur-
pose, that it is often the only index to merit in the
present age.

Though the taste which defines genius by the
points of the compass is a subject fit for mirth in
itself, it is often a serious matter in the sale of the
work. When rivers define the limits of abilities, as
well as the boundaries of countries, a writer may

32 PREFACE,

measure his success by the latitude under which he
was born. It was to avoid a part of this incon-
venience, that the Author is said, by some who
speak without any authority, to have ascribed his
own productions to another name. If this was the
case, he was but young in the art of deception.
When he placed the Poet in antiquity, the Trans-
lator should have been born on this side of the
Tweed.

These observations regard only the frivolous in
matters of literature ; these, however, form a ma-
jority of every age and nation. In this country
men of genuine taste abound ; but their still voice
is drowned in the clamours of a multitude, who
judge by fashion of poetry as of dress. The truth
is, to judge aright requires almost as much genius
as to write well ; and good critics are as rare as
great poets. Though two hundred thousand Ro-
mans stood up when Virgil came into the theatre,
Varius only could correct the jEneid. He that ob-
tains fame must receive it through mere fashion ;
and gratify his vanity with the applause of men,
of whose judgment he cannot approve.

The following poems, it must be confessed, are
more calculated to please persons of exquisite feel-
ings of heart, than those who receive all their im-
pressions by the ear. The novelty of cadence, in
what is called a prose version, though not destitute
of harmony, will not to common readers supply the
absence of the frequent returns of rhyme. This
was the opinion of the writer himself, though he
yielded to the judgment of others, in a mode, which
presented freedom and dignity of expression, in-
stead of fetters, which cramp the thought, whilst
the harmony of language is preserved. His inten-
tion was to publish in verse. The making of poetry,
like any other handicraft, may be learned by in-
dustry; and he had served his apprenticeship,
though in secret, to the Muses.

It is, however, doubtful, whether the harmony
which these poems might derive from rhyme, even
in much better hands than those of the Translator,
could atone for the simplicity and energy which

PREFACE. S3

they would lose. The determination of this point
shall be left to the readers of this Preface. The
following is the beginning of a poem, translated
from the Norse to the Gaelic language ; and, from
the latter, transferred into English. The verse
took little more time to the writer than the prose ;
and he himself is doubtful (if he has succeeded in
either), which of them is the most literal version.

Fragment of a Northern Tale.

Where Harold, with golden hair, spread o'er
Lochlin * his high commands ; where, with justice,
he ruled the tribes, who sunk, subdued, beneath
his sword ; abrupt rises Gormal \ in snow ! The
tempests roll dark on his sides, but calm, above,
his vast forehead appears. White-issuing from the
skirt of his storms, the troubled torrents pour
down his sides. Joining, as they roar along, they
bear the Torno, in foam, to the main.

Gray on the bank, and far from men, half-co-
vered, by ancient pines, from the wind, a lonely
pile exalts its head, long shaken by the storms of
the north. To this fled Sigurd, fierce in fight,
from Harold the leader of armies, when fate had
brightened his spear with renown: when he con-
quered in that rude field, where Lulan's warriors
fell in blood, or rose in terror on the waves of the
main. Darkly sat the gray-haired chief; yet sor-
row dwelt not in his soul. But when the warrior
thought on the past, his proud heart heaved again
his side: forth flew his sword from its place; he
wounded Harold in all the winds.

One daughter, and only one, but bright in form
and mild of soul, the last beam of the setting line,
remained to Sigurd of all his race. His son, in
Lulan's battle slain, beheld not his father's flight
from his foes. Nor finished seemed the ancient
line ! The splendid beauty of bright-eyed Fithon,

• The Gaelic name of Scandinavia, or Scandinia*
t The mountains of Sevo.

C 2

34 PREFACE,

covered still the fallen king with renown. Her
arm was white like Gormal's snow; her bosom
whiter than the foam of the main, when roll the
waves beneath the wrath of the winds. Like two
stars were her radiant eyes, like two stars that
rise on the deep, when dark tumult embroils the
night. Pleasant are their beams aloft, as stately
they ascend the skies.

Nor Odin forgot, in aught, the maid. Her form
scarce equalled her lofty mind. Awe moved around
her stately steps. Heroes loved— but shrunk away
in their fears. Yet midst the pride of all her charms,
her heart was soft and her soul was kind. She saw
the mournful with tearful eyes. Transient dark-
ness arose in her breast. Her joy was in the chase.
Each morning, when doubtful light wandered
dimly on Lulan's waves, she roused the resounding
woods to Gormal's head of snow. Nor moved the
maid alone, &c.

The same versified.

Where fair-hair'd Harold o'er Scandinia reign'd,
And held with justice what his valour gain'd,
Sevo, in snow, his rugged forehead rears,
And, o'er the warfare of his storms, appears
Abrupt and vast. — White wandering down his side
A thousand torrents, gleaming as they glide,
Unite below, and, pouring through the plain,
Hurry the troubled Torno to the main.

Gray, on the bank, remote from human kind,
By aged pines half shelter'd from the wind,
A homely mansion rose, of antique form,
For ages batter'd by the polar storm.
To this fierce Sigurd fled, from Norway's lord,
When fortune settled on the warrior's sword,
In that rude field, where Suecia's chiefs were slain,
Or forced to wander o'er the Bothnic main.
Dark was his life, yet undisturb'd with woes,
But when the memory of defeat arose
His proud heart struck his side ; he grasp'd the spear,
And wounded Harold in the vacant air.

PREFACE. 35

One daughter only, f)ut of form divine,
The last fair beam of the departing line,
Remain'd of Sigurd's race. His warlike son
Fell in the shock, which overturn'd the throne.
Nor desolate the house ! Fionia's charms
Sustain'd the glory, which they lost in arms.
White was her arm, as Sevo's lofty snow,
Her bosom fairer than the waves below
When heaving to the winds. Her radiant eyes
Like two bright stars, exulting as they rise,
O'er the dark tumult of a stormy night,
And gladd'ning heav'n with their majestic light.

In nought is Odin to the maid unkind.
Her form scarce equals her exalted mind;
Awe leads her sacred steps where'er they move,
And mankind worship where they dare not love.
But mix'd with softness was the virgin's pride,
Her heart had feeling, which her eyes denied;
Her bright tears started at another's woes,
While transient darkness on her soul arose.

The chase she loved : when morn with doubtful
beam
Came dimly wandering o'er the Bothnic stream,
On Sevo's sounding sides, she bent the bow,
And roused his forests to his head of snow.
Nor moved the maid alone, &e.

One of the chief improvements in this edition, is
the care taken in arranging the poems in the order
of time, so as to form a kind of regular history of
the age to which they relate. The writer has now
resigned them for ever to their fate. That they
have been well received by the public, appears from
an extensive sale; that they shall continue to be
well received, he may venture to prophesy without
the gift of that inspiration, to which poets lay claim.
Through the medium of version upon version,
they retain, in foreign languages, their native cha-
racter of simplicity and energy. Genuine poetry,
like gold, loses little, when properly transfused;
but when a composition cannot bear the test of a

36 PREFACE,

literal version, it is a counterfeit which ought not
to pass current. The operation must, however, be
performed with skilful hands. A translator, who
cannot equal his original, is incapable of express-
ing its beauties.

London,
Aug. 15, 1773.

A
DISSERTATION

CONCERNING

THE MRA OF OSSIAN.

INQUIRIES into the antiquities of nations afford
more pleasure than any real advantage to mankind*
The ingenious may form systems of history on pro-
babilities and a few facts ; but, at a great distance
of time, their accounts must be vague and uncer-
tain. The infancy of states and kingdoms is as
destitute of great events, as of the means of trans-
mitting them to posterity. The arts of polished life,
by which alone facts can be preserved with cer-
tainty, are the production of a well-formed com-
munity. It is then historians begin to write, and
public transactions to be worthy remembrance.
The actions of former times are left in obscurity,
or magnified by uncertain traditions. Hence it is
that we find so much of the marvellous in the
origin of every nation ; posterity being always
ready to believe any thing, however fabulous, that
reflects honour on their ancestors.

The Greeks and Romans were remarkable for
this weakness. They swallowed the most absurd
fables concerning the high antiquity of their re-
spective nations. Good historians, however, rose
very early amongst them, and transmitted, with
lustre, their great actions to posterity. It is to
them that they owe that unrivalled fame they now
enjoy, while the great actions of other nations are
involved in fables, or lost in obscurity. The Celtic

38 DISSERTATION ON

nations afford a striking instance of this kind.
They, though once the masters of Europe from
the mouth of the river Oby, in Russia, to Cape
Finisterre, the western point of Gallieia in Spain,
are very little mentioned in history. They trusted
their fame to tradition and the songs of their bards,
which, by the vicissitude of human affairs, are long
since lost. Their ancient language is the only
monument that remains of them ; and the traces
of it being found in places so widely distant from
each other, serves only to show the extent of their
ancient power, but throws very little light on their
history.

Of all the Celtic nations, that which possessed old
Gaul is the most renowned ; not perhaps on account
of worth superior to the rest, but for their wars with
a people who had historians to transmit the fame
of their enemies, as well as their own, to posterity. '
Britain was first peopled by them, according to the
testimony of the best authors ; its situation in re-
spect to Gaul makes the opinion probable; hut
what puts it beyond all dispute, is, that the same
customs and language prevailed among the in-
habitants of both in the days of Julius Caesar.

The colony from Gaul possessed themselves, at
first, of that part of Britain which was next to their
own country ; and, spreading northward, by de-
grees, as they increased in numbers, peopled the
whole island. Some adventurers, passing over from
those parts of Britain that are within sight of Ire-
land, were the founders of the Irish nation : which
is a more probable story than the idle fables of Mi-
lesian and Gallician colonies. Diodorus Siculus
mentions it as a thing well known in his time, that
the inhabitants of Ireland were originally Britons;
and his testimony is unquestionable, when we con-
sider that, for many ages, the language and customs
of both nations were the same.

Tacitus was of opinion that the ancient Caledo-
nians were of German extract; but even the ancient
Germans themselves were Gauls. The present
Germans, properly so called, were not the same
with the ancient Celta?. The manners and customs

THE ^ERA OF OSSIAN. 39

of the two nations were" similar, but their lan-
guage different. The Germans are the genuine
descendants of the ancient Scandinavians, who
crossed, at an early period, the Baltic. The Celta?,
anciently, sent many colonies into Germany, all
of whom retained their own laws, language, and
customs, till they were dissipated, in the Roman
empire; and it is of them, if any colonies came
from Germany into Scotland, that the ancient
Caledonians were descended.

But whether the ancient Caledonians were a
colony of the Celtic Germans, or the same with the
Gauls that first possessed themselves of Britain,
is a matter of no moment at this distance of time.
Whatever their origin was, we find them very
numerous in the time of Julius Agricola, which is
a presumption that they were long before settled
in the country. The form of their government
was a mixture of aristocracy and monarchy, as it
was in all the countries where the Druids bore
the chief sway. This order of men seems to have
been formed on the same principles with the
Dactyli, Ida?, and Curetes of the ancients. Their
pretended intercourse with Heaven, their magic
and divination, were the same. The knowledge
of the Druids in natural causes, and the properties
of certain things, the fruits of the experiments of
ages, gained them a mighty reputation among the
people. The esteem of the populace soon increased
into a veneration for the order ; which these cun-
ning and ambitious priests took care to improve
to such a degree, that they, in a manner, engrossed
the management of civil as well as religious mat-
ters. It is generally allowed, that they did not
abuse this extraordinary power; the preserving
the character of sanctity was so essential to their
influence, that they never broke out into violence
or oppression. The chiefs were allowed to execute
the laws, but the legislative power was entirely in
the hands of the Druids. It was by their authority
that the tribes were united, in times of the greatest
danger, under one head. This temporary king or
Vergobretus, was chosen by them, and generally

40 DISSERTATION ON

laid down his office at the end of the war. These
priests enjoyed long this extraordinary privilege
among the Celtic nations who lay beyond the pale
of the Roman empire. It was in the beginning of
the second century that their power among the
Caledonians began to decline. The traditions con-
cerning Trathal and Cormac, ancestors to Fingal,
are full of the particulars of the fall of the Druids :
a singular fate, it must be owned, of priests, who
had once established their superstition.

The continual wars of the Caledonians against
the Romans hindered the better sort from initiating
themselves, as the custom formerly was, into the
order of the Druids. The precepts of their religion
were confined to a few, and were not much at-
tended to by a people inured to war. The Vergo-
bretus, or chief magistrate, was chosen without
the concurrence of the hierarchy, or continued in
his office against their will. Continual power
strengthened his interest among the tribes, and
enabled him to send down, as hereditary to his
posterity, the office he had only received himself
by election.

On occasion of a new war against the ' king of
the world,' as tradition emphatically calls the
Roman emperor, the Druids, to vindicate the ho-
nour of the order, began to resume their ancient
privilege of choosing the Vergobretus. Garmal,
the son of Tamo, being deputed by them, came to
the grandfather of the celebrated Fingal, who was
then Vergobretus, and commanded him, in the
name of the whole order, to lay down his office.
Upon his refusal, a civil war commenced, which
soon ended in almost the total extinction of the
religious order of the Druids. A few that re-
mained retired to the dark recesses of their groves,
and the caves they had formerly used for their
meditations. It is then we find them in the circle
of stones, and unheeded by the world. A total
disregard for the order, and utter abhorrence of
the Druidical rites, ensued. Under this cloud of
public hate, all that had any knowledge of the
religion of the Druids became extinct, and the

THE JERA OF OSSIAN. 41

nation fell into the last degree of ignorance of
their rites and ceremonies.

It is no matter of wonder then, that Fingal and
his son Ossiau disliked the Druids, who were the
declared enemies to their succession in the supreme
magistracy. It is a singular case, it must be al-
lowed, that there are no traces of religion in the
poems ascribed to Ossian, as the poetical compo-
sitions of other nations are so closely connected
with their mythology. But gods are not necessary,
when the poet has genius. It is hard to account
for it to those who are not made acquainted with
the manner of the old Scottish bards. That race
of men carried their notions of martial honour to
an extravagant pitch. Any aid given their heroes
in battle, was thought to derogate from their fame ;
and the bards immediately transferred the glory of
the action to him who had given that aid.

Had the poet brought down gods, as often as
Homer has done, to assist his heroes, his work
had not consisted of eulogiums on men, but of
hymns to superior beings. Those who write in
the Gaelic language seldom mention religion in
their profane poetry; and when they professedly
write of religion, they never mix, with their com-
positions, the actions of their heroes. This custom
alone, even though the religion of the Druids had
not been previously extinguished, may, in some
measure, excuse the Author's silence concerning
the religion of ancient times.

To allege that a nation is void of all religion,
would betray ignorance of the history of mankind.
The traditions of their fathers, and their own ob-
servations on the works of nature, together with
that superstition which is inherent in the human
frame, have, in all ages, raised in the minds of
men some idea of a superior being. Hence it is,
that in the darkest times, and amongst the most
barbarous nations, the very populace themselves
had some faint notion, at least, of a divinity. The
Indians, who worship no God, believe that he
exists. It would be doing injustice to the Author
of these poems, to think, that he had not opened

42 DISSERTATION ON

his conceptions to that primitive and greatest of
all truths. But let his religion be what it will, it
is certain that he has not alluded to Christianity,
or any of its rites, in his poems ; which ought to
fix his opinions, at least, to an aera prior to that
Teligion. Conjectures, on this subject, must sup-
ply the place of proof. The persecution begun by
Dioclesian, in the year 303, is the most probable
time in which the first dawning of Christianity in
the north of Britain can be fixed. The humane
and mild character of Constantius Chlorus, who
commanded then in Britain, induced the persecuted
Christians to take refuge under him. Some of them,
through a zeal to propagate their tenets, or through
fear, went beyond the pale of the Roman empire,
and settled among the Caledonians ; who were ready
to hearken to their doctrines, if the religion of the
Druids was exploded long before.

These missionaries, either through choice, or to
give more weight to the doctrine they advanced,
took possession of the cells and groves of the
Druids; and it was from this retired life they had
the name of Culdees, which, in the language of the
country, signified « the sequestered persons.' It was
•with one of the Culdees that Ossian, in his extreme
old age, is said to have disputed concerning the
Christian religion. This dispute, they say, is ex-
tant, and is couched in verse, according to the cus-
tom of the times. The extreme ignorance on the
part of Ossian of the Christian tenets, shows, that
that religion had only lately been introduced, as it
is not easy to conceive, how one of the first rank
could be totally unacquainted with a religion that
had been known for any time in the country. The
dispute bears the genuine marks of antiquity. The
obsolete phrases and expressions, peculiar to the
time, prove it to be no forgery. If Ossian then
lived at the introduction of Christianity, as by all
appearance he did, his epoch will be the latter end

of the third, and beginning of the fourth century.

Tradition here steps in with a kind of proof.
The exploits of Fingal against Caracul, the son

cf the * king of the world,' are among the first brave

THE JERA OF OSSIAX. 43

actions of his youth. A complete poem, which re-
lates to this subject, is printed in this collection.

In the year CIO the emperor Severus, after return-
ing from his expedition against the Caledonians,
at York, fell into the tedious illness of which he
afterwards died. The Caledonians and Maiata?,
resuming courage from his indisposition, took arms
in order to recover the possessions they had lost.
The enraged emperor commanded his army to
march into their country, and to destroy it with fire
and sword. His orders were but ill executed ; for
his son, Caracalla, was at the head of the army, and
his thoughts were entirely taken up with the hopes
of his father's death, and with schemes to supplant
his brother Geta. He scarcely had entered the
enemy's country, when news was brought him that
Severus was dead. A sudden peace is patched up
with the Caledonians, and, as it appears from Dion
Cassius, the country they had lost to Severus was
restored to them.

The Caracul of Fingal is no other than Caracalla,
who, as the son of Severus, the emperor of Rome,
whose dominions were extended almost over the
known world, was not without reason called the « son
of the king of the world.' The space of time between
211, the year Severus died, and the beginning of the
fourth century, is not so great, but Ossian, the son
of Fingal, might have seen the Christians whom
the persecution under Dioclesian had driven beyond
the pale of the Roman empire.

In one of the many lamentations of the death of
Oscar, a battle which he fought against Caros, king
of ships, on the banks of the winding Carun, is
mentioned among his great actions. It is more than
probable, that the Caros mentioned here, is the
same with the noted usurper Carausius, who as-
sumed the purple in the year 287, ami, seizing on
Britain, defeated the emperor Maximinian Hercu-
lius in several naval engagements, which gives pro-
priety to his being called the ' king of ships.' The
• winding Carun' is that small river retaining still
the name of Carron, and runs in the neighbour-
hood of Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired

44 DISSERTATION ON

to obstruct the incursions of the Caledonians.
Several other passages in traditions allude to the
wars of the Romans; but the two just mentioned
clearly fix the epocha of Fingal to the third century ;
and this account agrees exactly with the Irish hi-
stories, which place the death of Fingal, the son of
Combal, in the year 283, and that of Oscar and their
own celebrated Cairbre, in the year 296.

Some people may imagine, that the allusions to
the Roman history might have been derived, by
tradition, from learned men, more than from an-
cient poems. This must then have happened at least
three hundred years ago, as these allusions are men-
tioned often in the compositions of those times.

Every one knows what a cloud of ignorance and
barbarism overspread the north of Europe three
hundred years ago. The minds of men, addicted
to superstition, contracted a narrowness that de-
stroyed genius. Accordingly we find the compo-
sitions of those times trivial and puerile to the last
degree. But, let it be allowed, that, amidst all the
untoward circumstances of the age, a genius might
arise; it is not easy to determine what could in-
duce him to allude to the Roman times. We find
no fact to favour any designs which could be en-
tertained by any man who lived in the fifteenth
century.

The strongest objection to the antiquity of the
poems now given to the public under the name of
Ossian, is the improbability of their being handed
down by tradition through so many centuries.
Ages of barbarism, some will say, could not pro-
duce poems abounding with the disinterested and
generous sentiments so conspicuous in the com-
positions of Ossian ; and could these ages produce
them, it is impossible but they must be lost, or al-
together corrupted, in a long succession of barbarous
generations.

Those objections naturally suggest themselves to
men unacquainted with the ancient state of the
northern parts of Britain. The bards, who were
an inferior order of the Druids, did not share
their bad fortune. They were spared by the vie-

THE ^RA OF OSSTAN. 45

torious king, as it was through their means only
he could hope for immortality to his fame. They
attended him in the camp, and contributed to esta-
blish his power by their songs. His great actions
were magnified, and the populace, who had no
ability to examine into his character narrowly,
were dazzled with his fame in the rhymes of the
bards. In the mean time, men assumed sentiments
that are rarely to be met with in an age of bar-
barism. The bards, who were originally the dis-
ciples of the Druids, had their minds opened, and
their ideas enlarged, by being initiated into the
learning of that celebrated order. They could
form a perfect hero in their own minds, and ascribe
that character to their prince. The inferior chiefs
made this ideal character the model of their con-
duct; and, by degrees, brought their minds to that
generous spirit which breathes in all the poetry
of the times. The prince, flattered by his bards,
and rivalled by his own heroes, who imitated his
character as described in the eulogies of his poets,
endeavoured to excel his people in merit, as he
was above them in station. This emulation con-
tinuing, formed at last the general character of
the nation, happily compounded of what is noble
in barbarity, and virtuous and generous in a po-
lished people.

When virtue in peace, and bravery in war, are
the characteristics of a nation, their actions be-
come interesting, and their fame worthy of im-
mortality. A generous spirit is warmed with
noble actions, and becomes ambitious of perpetu-
ating them. This is the true source of that divine
inspiration, to which the poets of all ages pretended.
When they found their themes inadequate to the
warmth of their imaginations, they varnished them
over with fables supplied with their own fancy, or
furnished by absurd traditions. These fables,
however ridiculous, had their abettors; posterity
either implicit!;, believed them, or, through a
▼anity natural to mankind, pretended that they
did. They loved to place the founders of their
families in the days of fable, when poetry, with-

46 DISSERTATION ON

out the fear of contradiction, could give what cha-
racter she pleased of her heroes. It is to this
vanity that we owe the preservation of what remain
of the more ancient poems. Their poetical merit
made their heroes famous in a country where he-
roism was much esteemed and admired. The pos-
terity of these heroes, or those who pretended to
be descended from them, heard with pleasure the
eulogiums of their ancestors ; bards were employed
to repeat the poems, and to record the connexion
of their patrons with chiefs so renowned. Every
chief in process of time had a bard in his family,
and the office became at last hereditary. By the
succession of these bards, the poems concerning
the ancestors of the family were handed down
from generation to generation; they were repeated
to the whole clan on solemn occasions, and always
alluded to in the new compositions of the bards.
This custom came down to near our own times;
and after the bards were discontinued, a great
number in a clan retained by memory, or com-
mitted to writing, their compositions, and founded
the antiquity of their families on the authority of
their poems.

The use of letters was not known in the north of
Europe till long after the institution of the bards :
the records of the families of their patrons, their
own, and more ancient poems, were handed down
by tradition. Their poetical compositions were
admirably contrived for that purpose. They were
adapted to music ; and the most perfect harmony
was observed. Each verse was so connected with
those which preceded or followed it, that if one
line had been remembered in a stanza, it was
almost impossible to forget the rest. The ca-
dences followed in so natural a gradation, and the
words were so adapted to the common turn of the
voice, after it is raised to a certain key, that it
was almost impossible, from a similarity of sound,
to substitute one word for another. This excel-
lence is peculiar to the Celtic tongue, and is per-
haps to be met with in no other language. Nor
does this choice of words clog the sense, or weaken

THE /ERA OF OSSIAK. 4?

the expression. The numerous flexions of conso-
nants, and variation in declension, make the lan-
guage very copious.

The descendants of the Celts, who inhabited Bri-
tain and its isles, were not singular in this method
of preserving the most precious monuments of
their nation. The ancient laws of the Greeks were
couched in verse, and handed down by tradition.
The Spartans, through a long habit, became so
fond of this custom, that they would never allow
their laws to be committed to writing. The actions
of great men, and the eulogiums of kings and
heroes, were preserved in the same manner. All
the historical monuments of the old Germans were
comprehended in their ancient songs ; which were
either hymns to their gods, or elegies in praise of
their heroes, and were intended to perpetuate the
great events in their nation, which were carefully
interwoven with them. This species of compo-
sition was not committed to writing, but delivered
by oral tradition. The care they took to have the
poems taught to their children, the uninterrupted
custom of repeating them upon certain occasions,
and the happy measure of the verse, served to pre-
serve them for a long time uncorrupted. This oral
chronicle of the Germans was not forgot in the
eighth century; and it probably would have re-
mained to this day, had not learning, which thinks
every thing that is not committed to writing fa-
bulous, been introduced. It was from poetical tra-
ditions that Garcilasso composed his account of
the Vncas of Peru. The Peruvians had lost all
other monuments of their history, and it was from
ancient poems, which his mother, a princess of the
blood of the Yncas, taught him in his youth, that
he collected the materials of his history. If other
nations, then, that had often been overrun by ene-
mies, and had sent abroad and received colonies,
could for many ages preserve, by oral tradition,
their laws and histories uncorrupted, it is much
more probable that the ancient Scots, a people so
free of intermixture with foreigners, and so strongly
attached to the memory of their ancestors, had

48 DISSERTATION, &c.

the works of their bards handed down with great

purity.

What is advanced, in this short Dissertation, it
must be confessed, is mere conjecture. Beyond
the reach of records is settled a gloom which no
ingenuity can penetrate. The manners described,
in these poems, suit the ancient Celtic times, and
no other period that is known in history. We
must, therefore, place the heroes far back in an-
tiquity ; and it matters little who were their con-
temporaries in other parts of the world. If we
have placed Fingal in his proper period, we do
honour to the manners of barbarous times. He
exercised every manly virtue in Caledonia, while
Heliogabalus disgraced human nature at Rome.

DISSERTATION

CONCERNING

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

THE history of those nations, who originally
possessed the north of Europe, is less known than
their manners. Destitute of the use of letters,
they themselves had not the means of transmitting
their great actions to remote posterity. Foreign
writers saw them only at a distance, and de-
scribed them as they found them. The vanity of
the Romans induced them to consider the nations
beyond the pale of their empire as barbarians; and,
consequently, their history unworthy of being in-
vestigated. Their manners and singular character
were matters of curiosity, as they committed them
to record. Some men, otherwise of great merit,
among ourselves, give into confined ideas on this
subject. Having early imbibed their idea of ex-
alted manners from the Greek and Roman writers,
they scarcely ever afterwards have the fortitude to
allow any dignity of character to any nation de-
stitute of the use of letters.

Without derogating from the fame of Greece and
Rome, we may consider antiquity beyond the pale
of their empire worthy of some attention. The
nobler passions of the mind never shoot forth more
free and unrestrained than in the times we call bar-
barous. That irregular manner of life, and those
manly pursuits, from which barbarity takes its
name, are highly favourable to a strength of mind
unknown in polished times. In advanced society,
the characters of men are more uniform and dis-

50 DISSERTATION ON

guised. The human passions lie in some degree
concealed behind forms and artificial manners;
and the powers of the soul, without an opportunity
of exerting them, lose their vigour. The times of
regular government, and polished manners, are
therefore to be wished for by the feeble and weak
in mind. An unsettled state, and those convul-
sions which attend it, is the proper field for an ex-
alted character, and the exertion of great parts.
Merit there rises always superior; no fortuitous
event can raise the timid and mean into power.
To those who look upon antiquity in this light, it
is an agreeable prospect ; and they alone can have
real pleasure in tracing notions to their source.

The establishment of the Celtic states, in the
north of Europe, is beyond the reach of written
annals. The traditions and songs to which they
trusted their history were lost, or altogether cor-
rupted, in their revolutions and migrations, which
were so frequent and universal, that no kingdom in
Europe is now possessed by its original inhabitants,
Societies were formed, and kingdoms erected, from
a mixture of nations, who, in process of time, lost
all knowledge of their own origin. If tradition
could be depended upon, it is only among a people,
from all time, free from intermixture with foreign-
ers. We are to look for these among the moun-
tains and inaccessible parts of a country ; places,
on account of their barrenness, uninviting to an
enemy, or whose natural strength enabled the na-
tives to repel invasions. Such are the inhabitants
of the mountains of Scotland. We accordingly
find, that they differ materially from those who pos-
sess the low and more fertile parts of the kingdom.
Their language is pure and original, and their man-
ners are those of f.n ancient and unmixed race of
men. Conscious of their own antiquity, they long
despised others, as a new and mixed people. As
they lived in a country only fit for pasture, they
were free from that toil and business which en-
gross the attention of a commercial people. Their
amusement consisted in hearing or repeating their
songs and traditions, and these entirely turned on

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 51

the antiquity of their nation, and the exploits of
their forefathers. It is no wonder, therefore, that
there are more remains among them than among
any other people in Europe. Traditions, however,
concerning remote periods are only to be regarded
in so far as they coincide with contemporary writers
of undoubted credit and veracity.

No writers began their accounts for a more early
period than the historians of the Scots nation.
Without records, or even tradition itself, they gave
a long list of ancient kings, and a detail of their
transactions, with a scrupulous exactness. One
might naturally suppose, that, when they had no
authentic annals, they should, at least, have re-
course to the traditions of their country, and have
reduced them into a regular system of history. Of
both they seem to have been equally destitute.
Born in the low country, and strangers to the an-
cient language of their nation, they contented them-
selves with copying from one another, and retailing
the same fictions, in a new colour and dress.

John Fordun was the first who collected those
fragments of the Scots history which had escaped
the brutal policy of Edward I., and reduced them
into order. His accounts, in so far as they con-
cerned recent transactions, deserved credit: be-
yond a certain period, they were fabulous and un-
satisfactory. Some time before Fordun wrote, the
king of England, in a letter to the pope, had run
up the antiquity of his nation to a very remote a?ra.
Fordun, possessed of all the national prejudice of
the age, was unwilling that his country should
yield, in point of antiquity, to a people, then its
rivals and enemies. Destitute of annals in Scot-
land, he had recourse to Ireland, which, according
to the vulgar errors of the times, was reckoned the
first habitation of the Scots. He found there, that
the Irish bards had carried their pretensions to an-
tiquity as high, if not beyond any nation in Europe.
It was from them he took those improbable fictions
which form the first part of his history.

The writers that succeeded Fordun implicitly
followed his system, though they sometimes varied

52 DISSERTATION ON

from him in their relations of particular transac-
tions and the order of succession of their kings.
As they had no new lights, and were, equally with
him, unacquainted with the traditions of their coun-
try, their histories contain little information con-
cerning the origin of the Scots. Even Buchanan
himself, except the elegance and vigour of his style,
has very little to recommend him. Blinded with
political prejudices, he seemed more anxious to
turn the fictions of his predecessors to his own
purposes, than to detect their misrepresentations,
or investigate truth amidst the darkness which
they had thrown round it. It therefore appears,
that little can be collected from their own histo-
rians, concerning the first migrations of the Scots
into Britain.

That this island was peopled from Gaul admits
of no doubt. Whether colonies came afterwards
from the north of Europe is a matter of mere
speculation. When South Britain yielded to the
power of the Romans, the unconquered nations to
the north of the province were distinguished by
the name of Caledonians. From their very name
it appears that they were of those Gauls who pos-
sessed themselves originally of Britain. It is com-
pounded of two Celtic words, Cael signifying
Celts, or Gauls, and Dun or Don a hill ; so that
Caeldon, or Caledonians, is as much as to say, the
* Celts of the hill country.' The Highlanders, to
this day, call themselves Cael, and their language
Gaelic, or Galic, and their country Caeldock, which
the Romans softened into Caledonia. This, of
itself, is sufficient to demonstrate that they are
the genuine descendants of the ancient Caledo-
nians, and not a pretended colony of Scots, who
settled first in the north in the third or fourth
century.

From the double meaning of the word Cael,
which signifies ' strangers,' as well as Gauls, or
Celts, some have imagined, that the ancestors of the
Caledonians were of a different race from the rest
of the Britons, and that they received their name
upon that account. This opinion, say they, is sup-

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 53

ported by Tacitus, who, from several circumstances,
concludes, that the Caledonians were of German ex-
traction. A discussion of a point so intricate, at
this distance of time, could neither be satisfactory
nor important.

Towards the latter end of the third, and begin-
ning of the fourth century, we find the Scots in
the north. Porphyrius makes the first mention of
them about that time. As the Scots were not heard
of before that period, most writers supposed them
to have been a colony newly come to Britain, and
that the Picts were the only genuine descendants
of the ancient Caledonians. This mistake is easily
removed. The Caledonians, in process of time, be-
came naturally divided into two distinct nations,
as possessing parts of the country entirely different
in their nature and soil. The western coast of
Scotland is hilly and barren ; towards the east the
country is plain, and fit for tillage. The inhabit-
ants of the mountains, a roving and uncontrolled
race of men, lived by feeding of cattle, and what
they killed in hunting. Their employment did not
fix them to one place. They removed from one
heath to another, as suited best with their con-
venience or inclination. They were not, therefore,
improperly called by their neighbours Scuite, or
'the wandering nation;' which is evidently the
origin of the Roman name of Scoti.

On the other hand, the Caledonians who pos-
sessed the east coast of Scotland, as this division
of the country was plain and fertile, applied them-
selves to agriculture, and raising of corn. It was
from this that the Galic name of the Picts pro-
ceeded; for they are called in that language,
Cruithnich, i. e. ' the wheat or corn-eaters.' As
the Picts lived in a country so different in its
nature from that possessed by the Scots, so their
national character suffered a material change. Un-
obstructed by mountains or lakes, their communi-
cation with one another was free and frequent.
Society, therefore, became sooner established among
them than among the Scots, and, consequently,
they were much sooner governed by civil magi-

54 DISSERTATION ON

strates and laws. This, at last, produced so great
a difference in the manners of the two nations,
that they began to forget their common origin,
and almost continual quarrels and animosities sub-
sisted between them. These animosities, after
some ages, ended in the subversion of the Pictish
kingdom, but not in the total extirpation of the
nation, according to most of the Scots writers, who
seem to think it more for the honour of their
countrymen to annihilate than reduce a rival
people under their obedience. It is certain, how-
ever, that the very name of the Picts was lost, and
that those that remained were so completely incor-
porated with their conquerors, that they soon lost
all memory of their own origin.

The end of the Pictish government is placed so
near that period to which authentic annals reach,
that it is matter of wonder that we have no monu-
ments of their language or history remaining. This
favours the system I have laid down. Had they
originally been of a different race from the Scots,
their language of course would be different. The
contrary is the case. The names of places in the
Pictish dominions, and the very names of their
kings, which are handed down to us. are of Galic
original, which is a convincing proof that the two
nations were, of old, one and the same, and only
divided into two governments, by the effect which
their situation had upon the genius of the people.

The name of Picts is said to have been given by
the Romans to the Caledonians, who possessed the
east coast of Scotland, from their painting their
bodies. The story is silly, and the argument absurd.
But let us revere antiquity in her very follies. This
circumstance made some imagine that the Picts
were of British extract, and a different race of men
from the Scots. That more of the Britons, who fled
northward from the tyranny of the Romans, settled
in the low country of Scotland than among the Scots
of the mountains, may be easily imagined, from the
very nature of the country. It was they who intro-
duced painting among the Picts. From this circum-
stance, affirm some antiquaries, proceeded the name

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 55

of the latter, to distinguish them from the Scots, who
never had that art among them, and from the Bri-
tons, who discontinued it after the Roman conquest.

The Caledonians, most certainly, acquired a con-
siderable knowledge in navigation by their living
on a coast intersected with many arms of the sea,
and in islands, divided, one from another, by wide
and dangerous firths. It is, therefore, highly pro-
bable, that they very early found their way to the
north of Ireland, which is within sight of their own
country. That Ireland was first peopled from Bri-
tain is, at length, a matter that admits of no doubt.
The vicinity of the two islands ; the exact corre-
spondence of the ancient inhabitants of both, in
point of manners and language, are sufficient
proofs, even if we had not the testimony of authors
of undoubted veracity to confirm it. The abettors
of the most romantic systems of Irish antiquities
allow it; but they place the colony from Britain
in an improbable and remote sera. I shall easily
admit that the colony of the Firbolg, confessedly
the Belgae of Britain, settled in the south of Ireland
before the Cael, or Caledonians, discovered the
north; but it is not at all likely that the migration
of the Firbolg to Ireland happened many centuries
before the Christian sera.

The poem of Temora throws considerable light
on this subject. The accounts given in it agTee so
well with what the ancients have delivered concern-
ing the first population and inhabitants of Ireland,
that every unbiassed person will confess them more
probable than the legends handed down, by tradi-
tion, in that country. It appears, that, in the days
of Trathal, grandfather to Fingal, Ireland was pos-
sessed by two nations; the Firbolg or Belgse of
Britain, who inhabited the south, and the Cael, who
passed over from Caledonia and the Hebrides to
Ulster. The two nations, as is usual among an un-
polished and lately settled people, were divided into
small dynasties, subject to petty kings, or chiefs,
independent of one another. In this situation, it is
probable, they continued long, without any material
revolution in the state of the island, until Crothar,

56 DISSERTATION ON

lord of Atha, a country in Connaught, the most
potent chief of the Firbolg, carried away Conlaraa,
the daughter of Cathmin, a chief of the Cael, who
possessed Ulster.

Conlama had been betrothed some time before to
Turloch, a chief of their own nation. Turloch re-
sented the affront offered him by Crothar, made an
irruption into Connaught, and killed Cormul, the
brother of Crothar, who came to oppose his pro-
gress. Crothar himself then took arms, and either
killed or expelled Turloch. The war, upon this,
became general between the two nations, and the
Cael were reduced to the last extremity. In this
situation, they applied for aid to Trathel, king of
Morven, who sent his brother Conar, already famous
for his great exploits, to their relief. Conar, upon
his arrival in Ulster, was chosen king, by the una-
nimous consent of the Caledonian tribes, who pos-
sessed that country. The war was renewed with
vigour and success; but the Firbolg appear to have
been rather repelled than subdued. In succeeding
reigns, we learn, from episodes in the same poem,
that the chiefs of Atha made several efforts to be-
come monarchs of Ireland, and to expel the race of
Conar.

To Conar succeeded his son Cormac, who appears
to have reigned long. In his latter days he seems
to have been driven to the last extremity, by an in-
surrection of the Firbolg, who supported the pre-
tensions of the chiefs of Atha to the Irish throne.
Fingal, who was then very young, came to the aid
of Cormac, totally defeated Colculla, chief of Atha,
and re-established Cormac in the sole possession of
all Ireland. It was then he fell in love with, and
took to wife, Roscrana, the daughter of Cormac,
who was the mother of Ossian.

Cormac was succeeded in the Irish throne by his
son, Cairbre ; Cairbre by Artho, his son, who was
the father of that Cormac in whose minority the
invasion of Swaran happened, which is the subject
of the poem of Fingal. The family of Atha, who
had not relinquished their pretensions to the Irish
throne, rebelled in the minority of Cormac, de-

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. tf

feated his adherents, and murdered him in the pa-
lace of Temora. Cairbar, lord of Atha, upon this
mounted the throne. His usurpation soon ended
with his life ; for Fingal made an expedition into
Ireland, and restored, after various vicissitudes of
fortune, the family of Conar to the possession of
the kingdom. This war is the subject of Temora;
the events, though certainly heightened and embel-
lished by poetry, seem, notwithstanding, to have
their foundation in true history.

Temora contains not only the history of the first
migration of the Caledonians into Ireland; it also
preserves some important facts, concerning the first
settlement of the Firbolg, or Belgas of Britain, in
that kingdom, under their leader Larthon, who was
ancestor to Cairbar and Cathmor, who successively
mounted the Irish throne, after the death of Cor-
mac, the jon of Artho. I forbear to transcribe the
passage, on account of its length. It is the song of
Fonar, the bard, towards the latter end of the
seventh book of Temora. As the generations from
Larthon to Cathmor, to whom the episode is ad-
dressed, are not marked, as are those of the family
of Conar, the first king of Ireland, we can form no
judgment of the time of the settlement of the Fir-
bolg. It is, however, probable it was some time
before the Cael, or Caledonians, settled in Ulster.
One important fact may be gathered from this hi-
story, that the Irish had no king before the latter
end of the first century. Fingal lived, it is supposed,
in the third century ; so Conar, the first monarch
of the Irish, who was his grand-uncle, cannot be
placed farther back than the close of the first. To
establish this fact, is to lay, at once, aside the pre-
tended antiquities of the Scots and Irish, and to get
quit of the long list of kings which the latter give
us for a millennium before.

Of the affairs of Scotland, it is certain, nothing
can be depended upon prior to the reign of Fergus,
the son of Ere, who lived in the fifth century. The
true history of Ireland begins somewhat later than
that period. Sir James Ware, who was indefatigable
in his researches after the antiquities of his country.,
D 2

58 DISSERTATION ON

rejects, as mere fiction, and idle romance, i. that
is related of the ancient Irish before the time of
St. Patrick, and the reign of Leogaire. It is from
this consideration that he begins his history at the
introduction of Christianity, remarking, that all
that is delivered down concerning the times of
paganism were tales of late invention, strangely
mixed with anachronisms and inconsistencies. Such
being the opinion of Ware, who had collected, with
uncommon industry and zeal, all the real and pre-
tendedly ancient manuscripts concerning the history
of his country, we may, on his authority, reject the
improbable and self-condemned tales of Keating and
O'Flaherty. Credulous and puerile to the last
degree, they have disgraced the antiquities they
meant to establish. It is to be wished, that some
able Irishman, who understands the language and
records of his country, may redeem, ere too late,
the genuine antiquities of Ireland from the hands
of these idle fabulists.

By comparing the history in these poems with the
legends of the Scots and Irish writers, and by after-
wards examining both by the test of the Roman
authors, it is easy to discover which is the most
probable. Probability is all that can be established
on the authority of tradition, ever dubious and un-
certain. But when it favours the hypothesis laid
down by contemporary writers of undoubted vera-
city, and, as it were, finishes the figure of which
they only drew the outlines, it ought, in the judg-
ment of sober reason, to be preferred to accounts
f.amed in dark and distant periods, with little
judgment, and upon no authority.

Concerning the period of more than a century
which intervenes between Fingal and the reign of
Fergus, the son of Ere or Arcath, tradition is dark
and contradictory. Some trace up the family of
Fergus to a son of Fingal of that name, who makes
a considerable figure in Ossian's Poems. The thr< e
elder sons of Fingal, Ossian, Fillan, and Ryno,
dying without issue, the succession, of course, de-
volved upon Fergus, the fourth son, and his pos-
terity. This Fergus, say some traditions, was the

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 59

father of Congal, whose son was Arcath, the father
of Fergus, properly called the first king of Scots, as
it was in his time the Cael, who possessed the
western coast of Scotland, began to be distinguished,
by foreigners, by the name of Scots. From thence-
forward, the Scots and Picts, as distinct nations, be-
came objects of attention to the historians of other
countries. The internal state of the two Caledonian
kingdoms has always continued, and ever must re-
main, in obscurity and fable.

It is in this epoch we must fix the beginning of the
decay of that species of heroism which subsisted in
the days of Fingal. There are three stages in human
society. The first is the result of consanguinity,
and the natural affection of the members of a family
to one another. The second begins when property
is established, and men enter into associations for
mutual defence, against the invasions and injustice
of neighbours. Mankind submit, in the third, to
certain laws and subordinations of government, to
which they trust the safety of their persons and pro-
perty. As the first is formed on nature, so, of
course, it is the most disinterested and noble. Men,
in the last, have leisure to cultivate the mind, and
to restore it, with reflection, to a primeval dignity of
sentiment. The middle state is the region of com-
plete barbarism and ignorance. About the begin-
ning of the fifth century, the Scots and Picts were
advanced into the second stage, and, consequently,
into those circumscribed sentiments which always
distinguish barbarity. The events which soon after
happened did not at all contribute to enlarge their
ideas, or mend their national character.

About the year 426, the Romans, on account of
domestic commotions, entirely forsook Britain, find-
ing it impossible to defend so distant a frontier. The
Picts and Scots, seizing this favourable opportunity,
made incursions into the deserted province. The
Britons, enervated by the slavery of several centu-
ries, and those vices which are inseparable from an
advanced state of civility, were not able to with-
stand the impetuous, though irregular attacks of a
barbarous enemy. In the utmost distress, they ap-

60 DISSERTATION ON

plied to their old masters, the Romans, and (after
the unfortunate state of the empire could not spare
aid) to the Saxons, a nation equally barbarous and
brave with the enemies of whom they were so much
afraid. Though the bravery of the Saxons repelled
the Caledonian nations for a time, yet the latter
found means to extend themselves considerably to-
wards the south. It is in this period we must
place the origin of the arts in civil life among the
Scots. The seat of government was removed from
themountains to the plain and more fertile provinces
of the south, to be near the common enemy, in case
of sudden incursions. Instead of roving through
unfrequented wilds in search of subsistence, by
means of hunting, men applied to agriculture, and
raising of corn. This manner of life was the first
means of changing the national character. The
next thing which contributed to it was their mixture
with strangers.

In the countries which the Scots had conquered
from the Britons, it is probable that most of the old
inhabitants remained. These, incorporating with the
conquerors, taught them agriculture and other arts,
which they themselves had received from the Ro-
mans. The Scots, however, in number as well as
power, being the most predominant, retained still
their language, and as many of the customs of their
ancestors as suited with the nature of the country
they possessed. Even the union of the two Caledo-
nian kingdoms did not much affect the national cha-
racter. Being originally descended from the same
stock, the manners of the Picts and Scots were as
similar as the different natures of the countries they
possessed permitted.

What brought about a total change in the genius
of the Scots nation, was their wars and other trans-
actions with the Saxons. Several counties in the
south of Scotland were alternately possessed by the
two nations. They were ceded, in the ninth age, to
the Scots, and it is probable that most of the Saxon
inhabitants remained in possession of their lands.
During the several conquests and revolutions in
England, many fled, for refuge, into Scotland, to

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. gt

avoid the oppression of foreigners, or the tyranny
of domestic usurpers ; insomuch, that the Saxon
race formed perhaps near one half of the Scottish
kingdom. The Saxon manners and language daily
gained ground on the tongue and customs of the
ancient Caledonians, till, at last, the latter were en-
tirely relegated to the inhabitants of the mountains,
who were still unmixed with strangers.

It was after the accession of territory which the
Scots received, upon the retreat of the Romans from
Britain, that the inhabitants of the Highlands were
divided into clans. The king, when he kept his
court in the mountains, was considered, by the
whole nation, as the chief of their blood. The small
number, as well as the presence of their prince,
prevented those divisions which afterwards sprung
forth into so many separate tribes. When the seat
of government was removed to the south, those who
remained in the Highlands were, of course, neg-
lected. They naturally formed themselves into
small societies, independent of one another. Each
society had its own regulus, who either was, or, in
the succession of a few generations, was regarded
as chief of their blood. The nature of the country
favoured an institution of this sort. A few valleys,
divided from one another by extensive heaths, and
impassable mountains, form the face of the High-
lands. In those valleys the chiefs fixed their re-
sidence. Round them, and almost within sight of
their dwellings, were the habitations of their rela-
tions and dependents.

The seats of the Highland chiefs were neither
disagreeable nor inconvenient. Surrounded with
mountains and hanging woods, they were covered
from the inclemency of the weather. Near them
generally ran a pretty large river, which, discharging
itself not far off", into an arm of the sea, or exten-
sive lake, swarmed with variety of fish. The woods
were stocked with wild fowl ; and the heaths and
mountains behind them were the natural seat of the
red deer and roe. If we make allowance for the
backward state of agriculture, the valleys were not
unfertile; affording, if not all the conveniences, at

62 DISSERTATION ON

least the necessaries of life. Here the chief lived,
the supreme judge and lawgiver of his own people ;
but his sway was neither severe nor unjust. As the
populace regarded him as the chief of their blood,
so he, in return, considered them as members of his
family. His commands, therefore, though absolute
and decisive, partook more of the authority of a
father than of the rigour of a judge. Though the
whole territory of the tribe was considered as the
property of the chief, yet his vassals made him no
other consideration for their lands than services,
neither burdensome nor frequent. As he seldom
went from home, he was at no expense. His table
was supplied by his own herds, and what his nume-
rous attendants killed in hunting.

In this rural kind of magnificence, the Highland
chiefs lived, for many ages. At a distance from the
seat of government, and secured by the inaecessi-
bleness of their country, they were free and inde-
pendent. As they had little communication with
strangers, the customs of their ancestors remained
among them, and their language retained its original
purity. Naturally fond of military fame, and re-
markably attached to the memory of their ancestors,
they delighted in traditions and songs, concerning
the exploits of their nation, and especially of their
own particular families. A succession of bards was
retained in every clan, to hand down the memorable
actions of their forefathers. As Fingal and his chiefs
were the most renowned names in tradition, the
bards took care to place them in the genealogy of
every great family. They became famous among the
people.and an object of fiction and poetry to the bard.
The bards erected their immediate patrons into
heroes, and celebrated them in their songs. As the
circle of their knowledge was narrow, their ideas
were confined in proportion. A few happy expres-
sions, and the manners they represent, may please
those who understand the language ; their obscurity
and inaccuracy would disgust in a translation. It
was chiefly for this reason that I have rejected
wholly the works of the bards in my publications.
Ossian acted in a more extensive sphere, and his

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 63

ideas ought to be more noble and universal; neither
gives he, I presume, so many of their peculiarities,
which are only understood in a certain period or
country. The other bards have their beauties, but
not in this species of composition. Their rhymes,
only calculated to kindle a martial spirit among the
vulgar, afford very little pleasure to genuine taste.
This observation only regards their poems of the
heroic kind ; in every inferior species of poetry they
are more successful. They express the tender me-
lancholy of desponding love with simplicity and
nature. So well adapted are the sounds of the
words to the sentiments, that, even without any
knowledge of the language, they pierce and dissolve
the heart. Successful love is expressed with pecu-
liar tenderness and elegance. In all their composi-
tions, except the heroic, which was solely calculated
to animate the vulgar, they gave us the genuine lan-
guage of the heart, without any of those affected
ornaments of phraseology, which, though intended
to beautify sentiments, divest them of their natural
force. The ideas, it is confessed, are too local to be
admired in another language : to those who are ac-
quainted with the manners they represent, and the
scenes they describe, they must afford pleasure and
satisfaction.

It was the locality of their description and senti-
ment that probably has kept them in the ob-
scurity of an almost lost language. The ideas of an
unpolished period are so contrary to the present
advanced state of society, that more than a common
mediocrity of taste is required, to relish them as
they deserve. Those who alone are capable of trans-
ferring ancient poetry into a modern language,
might be better employed in giving originals of their
own, were it not for that wretched envy and mean-
ness which affects to despise contemporary genius.
My first publication was merely accidental. Had I
then met with less approbation, my after-pursuiu
would have been more profitable; at least I might
have continued to be stupid, without being branded
with dulness.

These poems may furnish light to antiquaries, as

64 DISSERTATION ON

well as some pleasure to the lovers of poetry. The
first population of Ireland, its first kings, and seve-
ral circumstances which regard its connexion of
old with the south and north of Britain, are pre-
sented in several episodes. The subject and ca-
tastrophe of the poem are founded upon facts which
regarded the first peopling of that country, and the
contests between the two British nations who ori-
ginally inhabited that island. In a preceding part
of this Dissertation, I have shown how superior the
probability of this system is to the undigested fic-
tions of the Irish bards, and the more recent and
regular legions of both Irish and Scottish historians.
I mean not to give offence to the abettors of the
high antiquities of the two nations, though I have
all along expressed my doubts concerning the ve-
racity and abilities of those who deliver down their
ancient history. For my own part, I prefer the na-
tional fame, arising from a few certain facts, to the
legendary and uncertain annals of ages of a remote
and obscure antiquity. No kingdom now established
in Europe can pretend to equal antiquity with that
of the Scots, inconsiderable as it may appear in other
respects, even according to my system, so that it is
altogether needless to fix its origin a fictitious mil-
lennium before.

Since the first publication of these poems, many
insinuations have been made, and doubts arisen,
concerning their authenticity. Whether these suspi-
cions are suggested by prejudice, or are only the
effects of malice, I neither know nor care. Those
who have doubted my veracity have paid a compli-
ment to my genius ; and were even the allegation
true, my self-denial might have atoned for my fault.
Without vanity I say it, I think I could write tole-
rable poetry ; and I assure my antagonists, that I
should not translate what I could not imitate.

As prejudice is the effect of ignorance, I am not
surprised at its being general. An age that pro-
duces few marks of genius ought to be sparing of
admiration. The truth is, the bulk of mankind
have ever been led by reputation more than taste,
in articles of literature. If all the Romans who

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 65

admired Virgil understood his beauties, he would
have scarce deserved to have come down to us,
through so many centuries. Unless genius were in
fashion, Homer himself might have written in vain.
He that wishes to come with weight on the super-
ficial, must skim the surface, in their own shallow
way. Were my aim to gain the many, I would
write a madrigal sooner than an heroic poem. La-
berius himself would be always sure of more fol-
lowers than Sophocles.

Some who doubt the authenticity of this work,
with peculiar acuteness appropriate them to the
Irish nation. Though it is not easy to conceive how
these poems can belong to Ireland and to me at
once, I shall examine the subject, without further
animadversion on the blunder.

Of all the nations descended from the ancient
Celtae, the Scots and Irish are the most similar in
language, customs, and manners. This argues a
more intimate connexion between them than a re-
mote descent from the great Celtic stock. It is
evident, in short, that, at some period or other, they
formed one society, were subject to the same govern-
ment, and were, in all respects, one and the same
people. How they became divided, which the co-
lony, or which the mother-nation, I have in another
work amply discussed. The first circumstance that
induced me to disregard the vulgarly-received opi-
nion of the Hibernian extraction of the Scottish
nation, was my observations on their ancient lan-
guage. That dialect of the Celtic tongue spoken in
the north of Scotland is much more pure, more
agreeable to its mother-language, and more abound-
ing with primitives, than that now spoken, or even
that which has been written for some centuries back,
amongst the most unmixed part of the Irish nation.
A Scotchman, tolerably conversant in his own lan-
guage, understands an Irish composition, from that
derivative analogy which it has to the Galic of
North Britain. An Irishman, on the other hand,
without the aid of study, can never understand a
composition in the Galic tongue. This affords a
proof that the Scotch Galic is the most original.

66 DISSERTATION ON

and, consequently, the language of a more ancient
and unmixed people. The Irish, however backward
they may be to allow any thing to the prejudice of
their antiquity, seem inadvertently to acknowledge
it, by the very appellation they give to the dialect
they speak. They call their own language Gaelic
Eirinarch, i. e. Caledonian Irish, when, on the
contrary, they call the dialect of North Britain a
Chaelic, or the Caledonian tongue, emphatically.
A circumstance of this nature tends more to decide
which is the most ancient nation than the united
testimonies of a whole legion of ignorant bards and
senachies, who, perhaps, never dreamed of bringing
the Scots from Spain to Ireland till some one of
them, more learned than the rest, discovered, that
the Romans called the first Iberia, and the latter
Hibemia. On such a slight foundation were pro-
bably built the romantic fictions concerning the
. Milesians of Ireland.

From internal proofs it sufficiently appears, that
the poems published under the name of Ossian are
not of Irish composition. The favourite chimera,
that Ireland is the mother-country of the Scots, is
totally subverted and ruined. The fictions concern-
ing the antiquities of that country, which were form-
ing for ages, and growing as they came down, on
the hands of successive senachies and fileas, are
found, at last, to be the spurious brood of modern
and ignorant ages. To those who know how tena-
cious the Irish are of their pretended Iberian de-
scent, this alone is proof sufficient that poems so
subversive of their system could never be produced
by an Hibernian bard. But when we look to the
language, it is so different from the Irish dialect,
that it would be as ridiculous to think that Milton's
Paradise Lost could be wrote by a Scottish peasant,
as to suppose that the poems ascribed to Ossian
were writ in Ireland.

The pretensions of Ireland to Ossian proceed
from another quarter. There are handed down, in
that country, traditional poems, concerning the
Fiona, or the heroes of Fion Mac Comnal. This
Fion, say the Irish annalists, was general of the

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 67

militia of Ireland in the reign of Cormac, in the
third century. Where Keating and O'Flaherty
learned that Ireland had an embodied militia so
early, is not so easy for me to determine. Their
information certainly did not come from the Irish
poems concerning Fion. I have just now in my
hands all that remain of those compositions; but,
unluckily for the antiquities of Ireland, they ap-
pear to be the work of a very modern period. Every
stanza, nay almost every line, affords striking proofs
that they cannot be three centuries old. Their al-
lusions to the manners and customs of the fifteenth
century are so many, that it is matter of wonder
to me how any one could dream of their antiquity.
They are entirely writ in that romantic taste which
prevailed two ages ago. Giants, enchanted castles,
dwarfs, palfreys, witches, and magicians, form the
whole circle of the poet's invention. The cele-
brated Fion could scarcely move from one hillock
to another without encountering a giant, or being
entangled in the circles of a magician. Witches,
on broomsticks, were continually hovering round
him like crows; and he had freed enchanted vir-
gins in every valley in Ireland. In short, Fion,
great as he was, passed a disagreeable life. Not
only had he to engage all the mischiefs in his own
country, — foreign armies invaded him, assisted by
magicians and witches, and headed by kings as tall
as the mainmast of a first-rate. It must be owned,
however, that Fion was not inferior to them in
height.

A chos air Cromleach, druim-ard,
Chos eile air Crom-meal dubh,
Thoga Fion le lamh mhoir
An d'uisge o Lubhair na fruth.

With one foot on Cromleach his brow,
The other on Crommal the dark,
Fion took up with his large hand
The water from Lubar of the streams.

Cromleach and Crommal were two mountains in

68 DISSERTATION ON

the neighbourhood of one another, in Ulster, and
the river of Lubar ran through the intermediate
valley. The property of such a monster as this
Fion I should never have disputed with any nation ;
but the bard himself, in the poem from which the
above quotation is taken, cedes him to Scotland.

Fion o Albin, siol nan laoich !

Fion from Albion, race of heroes !

Were it allowable to contradict the authority of a
bard, at this distance of time, I should have given
as my opinion, that this enormous Fion was of the
race of the Hibernian giants, of Ruanus, or some
other celebrated name, rather than a native of Ca-
ledonia, whose inhabitants, now at least, are not
remarkable for their stature. As for the poetry, I
leave it to the reader.

If Fion was so remarkable for his stature, his
heroes had also other extraordinary properties.
• In weight all the sons of strangers' yielded to the
celebrated Ton-iosal ; and for hardness of skull,
and, perhaps, for thickness too, the valiant Oscar
stood « unrivalled and alone.' Ossian himself had
many singular and less delicate qualifications than
playing on the harp ; and the brave Cuthullin was
of so diminutive a size, as to be taken for a child
of two years of age by the gigantic Swaran. To
illustrate this subject, I shall here lay before the
reader the history of some of the Irish poems,
concerning Fion Mac Comnal. A translation of
these pieces, if well executed, might afford satis-
faction, in an uncommon way, to the public: but
this ought to be the work of a native of Ireland.
To draw forth from obscurity the poems of my own
country, has wasted all the time I had allotted for
the Muses; besides, I am too diffident of my own
abilities to undertake such a work. A gentleman
in Dublin accused me to the public, of committing
blunders and absurdities, in translating the lan-
guage of my own country, and that before any
translation of mine appeared. How the gentleman

THE POEMS OF OSSIAX. 69

came to see my blunders before I committed them,
is not easy to determine ; if he did not conclude,
that, as a Scotsman, and, of course, descended of
the Milesian race, I might have committed some
of those oversights which, perhaps very unjustly,
are said to be peculiar to them.

From the whole tenor of the Irish poems, concern-
ing the Fiona, it appears, that Fion Mac Coranal
flourished in the reign of Cormae, which is placed,
by the universal consent of the senachies, in the
third century. They even fix the death of Fingal
in the year 286, yet his son Ossian is made contem-
porary with St. Patrick, who preached the gospel
in Ireland about the middle of the fifth age. Ossian,
though at that time he must have been two hun-
dred and fifty years of age, had a daughter young
enough to become wife to the saint. On account
of this family connexion, ' Patrick of the Psalms,'
for so the apostle of Ireland is emphatically called
in the poems, took great delight in the company
of Ossian, and in hearing the great actions of his
family. The saint sometimes threw off the au-
sterity of his profession, drank freely, and had his
soul properly warmed with wine, to receive with
becoming enthusiasm the poems of his father-in-law.
One of the poems begins with this piece of useful
information :

Lo don rabh Padric na mhur,
Gun Sailm air uidh, ach a gòl,
Ghluais è thigh Ossian mhic Fhion,
O san leis bu bhinn a ghloir.

The title of this poem is ' Teantach mor na Fiona.'
It appears to have been founded on the same story
with the ■ Battle of Lora.' The circumstance and
catastrophe in both are much the same ; but the
Irish Ossian discovers the age in which he lived
by an unlucky anachronism. After describing the
total rout of Erragon, he very gTavely concludes
with this remarkable anecdote, that none of the
foe escaped but a few, who were permitted to go
on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. This circum-

70 DISSERTATION ON

stance fixes the date of the composition of the piece
some centuries after the famous croisade; for it is
evident, that the poet thought the time of the croi-
sade so ancient, that he confounds it with the age
of Fingal. Erragon, in the course of this poem, is
often called,

Riogh Lochlin an do shloigh,
King of Denmark of two nations —

which alludes to the union of the kingdoms of Nor-
way and Denmark, a circumstance which happened
under Margaret de Waldemar, in the close of the
I fourteenth age. Modern, however, as this pretended
Ossian was, it is certain he lived before the Irish
had dreamed of appropriating Fion, or Fingal,
to themselves. He concludes the poem with this
reflection :

Na fagha se comhthròm nan n* arm,
Erragon Mae Annir nan lànn glas
'San n' Albin ni n' abairtair Triath
Agus ghlaoite an n' Fhiona as.

' Had Erragon, son of Annir of gleaming swords,
avoided the equal contest of arms (single combat),
no chief should have afterwards been numbered in
Albion, and the heroes of Fion should no more be
named.'

The next poem that falls under our observation
is « Cath-cabhra,' or ' The Death of Oscar.' This
piece is founded on the same story which we have
in the first book of Temora. So little thought the
author of Cath-cabhra of making Oscar his country-
man, that, in the course of two hundred lines, of
which the poem consists, he puts the following ex-
pression thrice in the mouth of the hero :

Albin an sa d' roina m' arach —

Albion where I was born and bred.

The poem contains almost all the incidents in the

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 71

first book of Temora. In one circumstance the
bard differs materially from Ossian. Oscar, after
he was mortally wounded by Cairbar, was carried
by his people to a neighbouring hill which com-
manded a prospect of the sea. A fleet appeared at
a distance, and the hero exclaims with joy,

Loingeas mo shean-athair at' an
'S iad a tiàchd le cabhair chugain,
O Albin na n' ioma stuagh.

' It is the fleet of my grandfather, coming with aid
to our field, from Albion of many waves !' The tes-
timony of this bard is sufficient to confute the idle
fictions of Keating and O'Flaherty; for, though he
is far from being ancient, it is probable he flourished
a full century before these historians. He appears,
however, to have been a much better Christian than
chronologer ; for Fion, though he is placed two
centuries before St. Patrick, very devoutly recom-
mends the soul of his grandson to his Redeemer.

• Duan a Gharibh Mac-Starn' is another Irish poem
in high repute. The grandeur of its images, and its
propriety cf sentiment, might have induced me to
give a translation of it, had not I some expectations,
which are now over, of seeing it in the collection of
the Irish Ossian's Poems, promised twelve years
since to the public. The author descends some-
times from the region of the sublime to low and
indecent description; the last of which, the Irish
translator, no doubt, will choose to leave in the
obscurity of the original. In this piece Cuthullin
is used with very little ceremony, for he is oft called
the ' dog of Tara,' in the county of Meath. This
severe title of the redoubtable Cuthullin, the most
renowned of Irish champions, proceeded from the
poet's ignorance of etymology. Cu, ' voice,' or com-
mander, signifies also a dog. The poet chose the
last, as the most noble appellation for his hero.

The subject of the poem is the same with that of
the epic poem of Fingal. Caribh Mac-Starn is the
same with Ossian's Swaran, the son of Starno. His
single combats with, and his victory over, all the

72 DISSERTATION ON

heroes of Ireland, excepting the ' celebrated dog of
Tara,' i. e. Cuthullin, afford matter for two hundred
lines of tolerable poetry. Caribh's progress in search
ofCuthullin, and his intrigue with the gigantic Emir-
bragal, that hero's wife, enables the poet to extend
his piece to four hundred lines. This author, it
is true, makes Cuthullin a native of Ireland ; the
gigantic Emir-bragal he calls « the guiding star of
the women of Ireland.' The property of this enor-
mous lady I shall not dispute with him, or any
other. But as he speaks with great tenderness of
the 'daughters of the convent,' and throws out
some hints against the English nation, it is proba-
ble he lived in too modern a period to be intimately
acquainted with the genealogy of Cuthullin.

Another Irish Ossian, for there were many, as
appears from their difference in language and sen-
timent, speaks very dogmatically of Fion Mac-
Comnal, as an Irishman. Little can be said for
the judgment of this poet, and less for his delicacy
of sentiment. The history of one of his episodes
may, at once, stand as a specimen of his want of
both. Ireland, in the days of Fion, happened to
be threatened with an invasion, by three great po-
tentates, the kings of Lochlin, Sweden, and France.
It is needless to insist upon the impropriety of a
French invasion of Ireland ; it is sufficient for me
to be faithful to the language of my author. Fion,
upon receiving intelligence of the intended in-
vasion, sent Ca-olt, Ossian, and Oscar, to watch
the bay, in which it was apprehended the enemy
was to land. Oscar was the worst choice of a scout
that could be made ; for, brave as he was, he had
the bad property of very often falling asleep on his
post, nor was it possible to awake him, without
cutting off one of his fingers, or dashing a large
stone against his head. When the enemy appeared,
Oscar, very unfortunately, was asleep. Ossian and
Ca-olt consulted about the method of wakening
him, and they, at last, fixed on the stone, as the
less dangerous expedient.

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 73

Gun thog Caoilte a chlach, nach gàn,
Agus a n' aighai' chiean gun bhuail;
Tri mil an tulloch gun chri', &c.

' Ca-olt took up a heavy stone, and struck it
against the hero's head. The hill shook for three
miles, as the stone rebounded and rolled away.'
Oscar rose in wrath, and his father gravely desired
him to spend his rage on his enemies, which he did
to so good purpose, that he singly routed a whole
wing of their army. The confederate kings ad-
vanced, notwithstanding, till they came to a nar-
row pass, possessed by the celebrated Ton-iosal.
This name is very significant of the singular pro-
perty of the hero who bore it. Ton-iosal, though
brave, was so heavy and unwieldy, that when he
sat down, it took the whole force of a hundred men
to set him upright on his feet again. Luckily for
the preservation of Ireland, the hero happened to
be standing when the enemy appeared, and he gave
so good an account of them, that Fion, upon his
arrival, found little to do, but to divide the spoil
among his soldiers.

All these extraordinary heroes, Fion, Ossian,
Oscar, and Ca-olt, says the poet, were

Siol Erin na gorm lànn.

The sons of Erin of blue steel.

Neither shall I much dispute the matter with him :
he has my consent also to appropriate to Ireland
the celebrated Tonoi-sal. I shall only say, that
they are different persons from those of the same
name in the Scots poems; and that, though the
stupendous valour of the first is so remarkable,
they have not been equally lucky with the latter,
in their poet. It is somewhat extraordinary, that
Fion, who lived some ages before St. Patrick,
swears like a very good Christian :

Air an Dia do chum gach case.

By God, who shaped every case.

74 DISSERTATION ON

It is worthy of being remarked, that, in the line
quoted, Ossian, who lived in St. Patrick's days,
seems to have understood something of the English,
a language not then subsisting. A person, more
sanguine for the honour of his country than I am,
might argue from this circumstance, that this pre-
tendedly Irish Ossian was a native of Scotland; for
my countrymen are universally allowed to have an
exclusive right to the second-sight.

From the instances given the reader may form a
complete idea of the Irish compositions concerning
the Fiona. The greatest part of them make the
heroes of Fion,

Siol Albin a n'nioma caoile.

The race of Albion of many firths.

The rest make them natives of Ireland. But the
truth is, that their authority is of little consequence
on either side. From the instances I have given,
they appear to have been the work of a very mo-
dern period. The pious ejaculations they contain,
their allusions to the manners of the times, fix
them to the fifteenth century. Had even the au-
thors of these pieces avoided all allusions to their
own times, it is impossible that the poems could
pass for ancient, in the eyes of any person tolerably
conversant with the Irish tongue. The idiom is
so corrupted, and so many words borrowed from
the English, that the language must have made
considerable progress in Ireland before the poems
were written.

It remains now to show, how the Irish bards
begun to appropriate the Scottish Ossian and his
heroes to their own country. After the English
conquest, many of the natives of Ireland, averse
to a foreign yoke, either actually were in a state
of hostility with the conquerors, or, at least, paid
little regard to the government. The Scots, in
those ages, were often in open war, and never in
cordial friendship, with the English. The simi-
larity of manners and language, the traditions con-

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 75

cerning their common origin, and, above all, their
having to do with the same enemy, created a free
and friendly intercourse between the Scottish and
Irish nations. As the custom of retaining bards
and senachies was common to both; so each, no
doubt, had formed a system of history, it matters
not how much soever fabulous, concerning their re-
spective origin. It was the natural policy of the
times, to reconcile the traditions of both nations
together, and, if possible, to deduce them from the
same original stock.

The Saxon manners and language had, at that
time, made great progress in the south of Scotland.
The ancient language, and the traditional history
of the nation, became confined entirely to the inha-
bitants of the Highlands, then fallen, from several
concurring circumstances, into the last degree of
ignorance and barbarism. The Irish, who, for
some ages before the conquest, had possessed a
competent share of that kind of learning which
then prevailed in Europe, found it no difficult
matter to impose their own fictions on the ignorant
Highland senachies. By flattering the vanity of
the Highlanders with their long list of Hermonian
kings and heroes, they, without contradiction, as-
sumed to themselves the character of being the
mother-nation of the Scots of Britain. At this
time, certainly, was established that Hibernian
system of the original of the Scots, which after-
wards, for want of any other, was universally re-
ceived. The Scots of the low country, who, by
losing the language of their ancestors, lost, to-
gether with it, their national traditions, received
implicitly the history of their country from Irish
refugees, or from Highland senachies, persuaded
over into the Hibernian system.

These circumstances are far from being ideal.
We have remaining many particular traditions,
which bear testimony to a fact, of itself abundantly
probable. What makes the matter incontestable is,
that the ancient traditional accounts of the genuine
origin of the Scots have been handed down with-
out interruption. Though a few ignorant senachies

?6 DISSERTATION, &c.

might be persuaded out of their own opinion, by
the smoothness of an Irish tale, it was impossible
to eradicate, from among the bulk of the people,
their own national traditions. These traditions af-
terwards so much prevailed, that the Highlanders
continue totally unacquainted with the pretended
Hibernian extract of the Scotch nation. Ignorant
chronicle writers, strangers to the ancient language
of their country, preserved only from falling to the
ground so improbable a story.

This subject, perhaps, is pursued farther than it
deserves ; but a discussion of the pretensions of
Ireland was become in some measure necessary.
If the Irish poems, concerning the Fiona, should
appear ridiculous, it is but justice to observe, that
they are scarcely more so than the poems of other
nations at that period. On other subjects, the bards
of Ireland have displayed a genius for poetry. It
was alone in matters of antiquity that they were
monstrous in their fables. Their love-sonnets, and
their elegies on the death of persons worthy or re-
nowned, abound with simplicity, and à wild har-
mony of numbers. They become more than an
atonement for their errors, in every other species
of poetry. But the beauty of these species depends
so much on a certain cui-iosa felicitas of expression
in the original, that they must appear much to dis-
advantage in another language.

CRITICAL DISSERTATION

POEMS OF OSSIAN,

THE SON OF FINGAL.
BY HUGH BLAIR, D.D.

One of the Ministers of the High Church, and Pro-
fessor of Rhetoric and Belles-Lettres, Edinburgh.

AMONG the monuments remaining of the ancient
state of nations, few are more valuable than their
poems or songs. History, when it treats of remote
or dark ages, is seldom very instructive. The be-
ginnings of society, in every country, are involved
in fabulous confusion ; and though they were not,
they would furnish few events worth recording.
But, in every period of society, human manners
are a curious spectacle ; and the most natural pic-
tures of ancient manners are exhibited in the an-
cient poems of nations. These present to us, what
is much more valuable than the history of such
transactions as a rude age can afford — the history
of human imagination and passion. They make
us acquainted with the notions and feelings of our
fellow-creatures in the most artless ages ; discover-
ing what objects they admired, and what pleasures
they pursued, before those refinements of society
had taken place, which enlarge indeed, and diver-
sify the transactions, but disguise the manners of
mankind.

Besides this merit, which ancient poems have
with philosophical observers of human nature, they
have another with persons of taste. They promise

78 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

some of the highest beauties of poetical writing. Ir-
regular and unpolished we may expect the produc-
tions of uncultivated ages to be ; but abounding, at
the same time, with that enthusiasm, that vehemence
and fire, which are the soul of poetry : for many
circumstances of those times which we call barba-
rous, are favourable to the poetical spirit. That
state, in which human nature shoots wild and free,
though unfit for other improvements, certainly en-
courages the high exertions of fancy and passion.

In the infancy of societies, men lived scattered
and dispersed, in the midst of solitary rural scenes,
where the beauties of nature are their chief enter-
tainment. They meet with many objects, to them
new and strange ; their wonder and surprise are
frequently excited ; and by the sudden changes of
fortune occurring in their unsettled state of life,
their passions are raised to the utmost ; their pas-
sions have nothing to restrain them, their imagina
tion has nothing to check it. They display them-
selves to one another without disguise, and converse
and act in the uncovered simplicity of nature. As
their feelings are strong, so their language, of it-
self, assumes a poetical turn. Prone to exaggerate,
they describe every thing in the strongest colours:
which of course renders their speech picturesque
and figurative. Figurative language owes its rise
chiefly to two causes; to the want of proper names
for objects, and to the influence of imagination and
passion over the form of expression. Both these
causes concur in the infancy of society. Figures
are commonly considered as artificial modes of
speech, devised by orators and poets, after the
world had advanced to a refined state. The con-
trary of this is the truth. Men never have used so
many figures of style, as in those rude ages, when,
besides the power of a warm imagination to suggest
lively images, the vvant of proper and precise terras
for the ideas they would express, obliged them to
have recourse to circumlocution, metaphor, compa-
rison, and all those substituted forms of expression,
which give a poetical air to language. An Ameri-
can chief, at this day, harangues at the head of

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 70

his tribe in a more bold and metaphorical style
than a modern European would adventure to use
in an epic poem.

In the progress of society, the genius and man-
ners of men undergo a change more favourable to
accuracy than to sprightliness and sublimity. As
the world advances, the understanding gains ground
upon the imagination ; the understanding is more
exercised; the imagination less. Fewer objects oc-
cur that are new or surprising. Men apply them-
selves to trace the causes of things; they correct
and refine one another; they subdue or disguise
their passions; they form their exterior manners
upon one uniform standard of politeness and civi-
lity. Human nature is pruned according to method
and rule. Language advances from sterility to co-
piousness, and, at the same time, from fervour and
enthusiasm to correctness and precision. Style
becomes more chaste, but less animated. The pro-
gress of the world in this respect resembles trie
progress of age in man. The powers of imagina-
tion are most vigorous and predominant in youth;
those of the understanding ripen more slowly, and
often attain not to their maturity till the imagina-
tion begins to flag. Hence poetry, which is the
child of imagination, is frequently most glowing
and animated in the first ages of society. As the
ideas of our youth are remembered with a peculiar
pleasure, on account of their liveliness and vivacity ;
so the most ancient poems have often proved the
greatest favourites of nations.

Poetry has been said to be more ancient than
prose: and, however paradoxical such an assertion
may seem, yet, in a qualified sense, it is true. Men
certainly never conversed with one another in re-
gular numbers; but even their ordinary language
would in ancient times, for the reasons before as-
signed, approach to a poetical style ; and the first
compositions transmitted toposterity, beyond doubt,
were, in a literal sense, poems; that is, composi-
tions in which imagination had the chief hand,
formed into some kind of numbers, and pronounced
with a musical modulation or tone. Music or song

80 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

has been found coeval with society among the most
barbarous nations. The only subjects which could
prompt men, in their first rude state, to utter their
thoughts in compositions of any length, were such
as naturally assumed the tone of poetry; praise3
of their gods, or of their ancestors; commemora-
tions of their own warlike exploits; or lamenta-
tions over their misfortunes. And, before writing
was invented, no other compositions, except songs
or poems, could take such hold of the imagination
and memory, as to be preserved by oral tradition,
and handed down from one race to another.

Hence we may expect to find poems among the
antiquities of all nations. It is probable, too, that
an extensive search would discover a certain degree
of resemblance among all the most ancient poetical
productions, from whatever country they have pro-
ceeded. In a similar state of manners, similar ob-
jects and passions operating upon the imaginations
of men, will stamp their productions with the same
general character. Some diversity will, no doubt,
be occasioned by climate and genius. But mankind
never bear such resembling features as they do in
the beginnings of society. Its subsequent revolu-
tions give rise to the principal distinctions among
nations ; and divert, into channels widely separated,
that current of human genius and manners, which
descends originally from one spring. What we
have been long accustomed to call the oriental vein
of poetry, because some of the earliest poetical
productions have come to us from the East, is pro-
bably no more oriental than occidental : it is cha-
racteristical of an age rather than a country ; and
belongs, in some measure, to all nations at a cer-
tain period. Of this the works of Ossian seem to
furnish a remarkable proof.

Our present subject leads us to investigate the
ancient poetical remains, not so much of the East,
or of the Greeks and Romans, as of the northern
nations; in order to discover whether the Gothic
poetry has any resemblance to the Celtic or Galic,
which we are about to consider. Though the Goths,
under whose name we usually comprehend all the

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 81

Scandinavian tribes, were a people altogether fierce
and martial, and noted, to a proverb, for their ig-
norance of the liberal arts, yet they too, from the
earliest times, had their poets and their songs.
Their poets were distinguished by the title of
Scalders, and their songs were termed Vyses. Saxo
Grammaticus, a Danish historian of considerable
note, who flourished in the thirteenth century, in-
forms us, that very many of these songs, containing
the ancient traditionary stories of the country,
were found engraven upon rocks in the old Runic
character, several of which he has translated into
Latin, and inserted into his History. But his ver-
sions are plainly so paraphrastical, and forced into
such an imitation of the style and the measures of
the Roman poets, that one can form no judgment
from them of the native spirit of the original. A
more curious monument of the true Gothic poetry
is preserved by Olaus Wormius in his book de
Literatura Runica. It is an Epicedium, or funeral
song, composed by Regner Lodbrog, and translated
by Olaus word for word from the original. This
Lodbrog was a king of Denmark, who lived in the
eighth century, famous for his wars and victories ;
and at the same time an eminent sealder, or poet.
It was his misfortune to fall at last into the hands
of one of his enemies, by whom he was thrown
into prison, and condemned to be destroyed by ser-
pents. In this situation, he solaced himself with
rehearsing all the exploits of his life. The poem is
divided into twenty-nine stanzas, of ten lines each ;
and every stanza begins with these words, Pugna-
vimus ensibus, We have fought with our swords.
Olaus's version is in many places so obscure as to
be hardly intelligible. I have subjoined the whole
below, exactly as he has published it* ; and shall
translate as much as may give the English reader
an idea of the spirit and strain of this kind of poetry.

• We have fought with our swords. I was young,
when, towards the east, in the bay of Oreon, we
made torrents of blood flow, to gorge the ravenous

* See the note at the end of the Dissertation.

E 2

82 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

beast of prey, and the yellow-footed bird. There
resounded the hard steel upon the lofty helmets of
men. The whole ocean was one wound. The crow
waded in the blood of the slain. When we had
numbered twenty years, we lifted our spears on
high, and every where spread our renown. Eight
barons we overcame in the east, before the port of
Diminum ; and plentifully we feasted the eagle in
that slaughter. The warm stream of wounds ran
into the ocean. The army fell before us. When
we steered our ships into the mouth of the Vistula,
we sent the Helsingians to the hall of Odin. Then
did the sword bite. The waters were all one wound.
The earth was dyed red with the warm stream. The
sword rung upon the coats of mail, and clove the
bucklers in twain. None fled on that day, till
among his ships Heraudusfell. Than him no braver
baron cleaves the sea with ships ; a cheerful heart
did he ever bring to the combat. Then the host
threw away their shields, when the uplifted spear
flew at the breasts of heroes. The sword bit the
Scarfian rocks ; bloody was the shield in battle,
until Rafno the king was slain. From the heads
of warriors the warm sweat streamed down their
armour. The crows around the Indirian islands
had an ample prey. It were difficult to single out
one among so many deaths. At the rising of the
sun I beheld the spears piercing the bodies of foes,
and the bows throwing forth their steel-pointed
arrows. Loud roared the swords in the plains of
Lano. — The virgin long bewailed the slaughter
of that morning.' — In this strain the poet continues
to describe several other military exploits. The
images are not much varied : the noise of arms, the
streaming of blood, and the feasting the birds of
prey, often recurring. He mentions the death of
two of his sons in battle; and the lamentation he
describes as made for one of them is very singular.
A Grecian or Roman poet would have introduced
the virgins or nymphs of the wood bewailing the
untimely fall of a young hero. But, says our
Gothic poet, ' When Rogvaldus was slain, for him
mourned all the hawks of heaven,' as lamenting a

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAK. 83

benefactor who had so liberally supplied them with
prey; • for boldly,' as he adds, ■ in the strife of
swords did the breaker of helmets throw the spear
of blood.'

The poem concludes with sentiments of the high-
est bravery and contempt of death. ' AVhat is
more certain to the brave man than death, though
amidst the storm of swords he stands always ready
to oppose it ? He only regrets this life who hath
never known distress. The timorous man allures
the devouring eagle to the field of battle. The
coward, wherever he comes, is useless to himself.
This I esteem honourable, that the youth should
advance to the combat fairly matched one against
another ; nor man retreat from man. Long was this
the warrior's highest glory. He who aspires to the
love of virgins, ought always to be foremost in the
roar of arms. It appears to me, of truth, that we
are led by the Fates. Seldom can any overcome
the appointment of destiny. Little did I foresee
that Ella was to have my life in his hands, in that
day when fainting I concealed my blood, and push-
ed forth my ships into the waves; after we had
spread a repast for the beasts of prey throughout
the Scottish bays. But this makes me always re-
joice, that in the walls of our father Balder [or
Odin] I know there are seats prepared, where in a
short time we shall be drinking ale out of the hol-
low sculls of our enemies. In the house of the
mighty Odin no brave man laments death. I come
not with the voice of despair to Odin's hall. How
eagerly would all the sons of Aslauga now rush to
war, did they know the distress of their father,
whom a multitude of venomous serpents tear ! I
have given to my children a mother who hath filled
their hearts with valour. I am fast approaching
to my end. A cruel death awaits me from the vi-
per's bite. A snake dwells in the midst of my heart.
I hope that the sword of some of my sons shall yet
be stained with the blood of Ella. The valiant
youths will wax red with anger, and will not sit in
peace. Fifty and one times have I reared the
standard in battle. In my youth I learned to dye

84 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

the sword in blood: my hope was then that no
king among men would be more renowned than me.
The goddesses of death will now soon call me ; I
must not mourn my death. Now I end my song.
The goddesses invite me away; they whom Odin
has sent to me from his hall. I will sit upon a
lofty seat, and drink ale joyfully with the god-
desses of death. The hours of my life are run out.
I will smile when I die.'

This is such poetry as we might expect from a bar-
barous nation. It breathes a most ferocious spirit.
It is wild, harsh, and irregular; but at the same
time animated and strong; the style, in the original,
full of inversions, and, as we learn from some of
Olaus's notes, highly metaphorical and figured.

But when we open the works of Ossian, a very
different scene presents itself. There we find the
fire and the enthusiasm of the most early times,
combined with an amazing degree of regularity and
art. We find tenderness, and even delicacy of
sentiment, greatly predominant over fierceness and
barbarity. Our hearts are melted with the softest
feelings, and at the same time elevated with the
highest ideas of magnanimity, generosity, and true
heroism. When we turn from the poetry of Lod-
brog to that of Ossian, it is like passing from a
savage desert into a fertile and cultivated country.
How is this to be accounted for? or by what means
to be reconciled with the remote antiquity attributed
to these poems? This is a curious point; and re-
quires to be illustrated.

That the ancient Scots were of Celtic original, is
past all doubt. Their conformity with the Celtic
nations in language, manners, and religion, proves
it to a full demonstration. The Celta?, a great and
mighty people, altogether distinct from the Goths
and Teutones, once extended their dominion over
all the west of Europe; but seem to have had their
most full and complete establishment in Gaul.
Wherever the Celtic or Gauls are mentioned by an-
cient writers, we seldom fail to hear of their Druids
and their Bards ; the institution of which two or-
ders was the capital distinction of their manners

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 8,5

and policy. The Druids were their philosophers
and priests ; the Bards, their poets and recorders of
heroic actions ; and both these orders of men seem
to have subsisted among them, as chief members
of the state, from time immemorial. We must not
therefore imagine the Celtre to have been altogether
a gross and rude nation. They possessed from very
remote ages a formed system of discipline and man-
ners, which appears to have had a deep and lasting
influence. Ammianus Marcellinus gives them this
express testimony, that there flourished among them
the study of the most laudable arts ; introduced by
the Bards, whose office it was to sing in heroic verse
the gallant actions of illustrious men; and by the
Druids, who lived together in colleges, or societies,
after the Pythagorean manner, and, philosophising
upon the highest subjects, asserted the immortality
of the human soul. Though Julius Cfesar, in his
account of Gaul, does not expressly mention the
Bards, yet it is plain, that under the title of Druids
he comprehends that whole college or order ; of
which the Bards, who, it is probable, were the dis-
ciples of the Druids, undoubtedly made a part. It
deserves remark, that, according to his account, the
Druidical institution first took rise in Britain, and
passed from thence into Gaul; so that they who
aspired to be thorough masters of that learning were
wont to resort to Britain. He adds, too, that such
as were to be initiated among the Druids were
obliged to commit to their memory a great number
of verses, insomuch that some employed twenty
years in this course of education; and that they
did not think it lawful to record those poems in
writing, but sacredly handed them down by tradi-
tion from race to race.

So strong was the attachment of the Celtic na-
tions to their poetry and bards, that, amidst all the
changes of their government and manners, even
long after the order of the Druids was extinct, and
the national religion altered, the bards continued to
flourish ; not as a set of strolling songsters, like the
Greek 'Ao<5o<, or Rhapsodists, in Homer's time, but
as an order of men highly respected in the state,

86 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

and supported by a public establishment. We find
them, according to the testimonies of Strabo and
Diodorus, before the age of Augustus Caesar ; and
we find them remaining under the same name, and
exercising the same functions as of old, in Ireland,
and in the north of Scotland, almost down to our
own times. It is well known that in both these
countries every regulus or chief had his own bard,
who was considered as an officer of rank in his
court ; and had lands assigned him which descend-
ed to his family. Of the honour in which the
bards were held, many instances occur in Ossian's
poems. On all important occasions, they were the
ambassadors between contending chiefs ; and their
persons were held sacred. « Cairbar feared to
stretch his sword to the bards, though his soul was
dark. ' Loose the bards,' said his brother Cath-
mor; * they are the sons of other times. Their
voice shall be heard in other 3ges, when the kings
of Temora have failed.'

From all this, the Celtic tribes clearly appear to
have been addicted in so high a degree to poetry,
and to have made it so much their study from the
earliest times, as may remove our wonder at meet-
ing with a vein of higher poetical refinement among
them than was at first sight to have been expected
among nations whom we are accustomed to call
barbarous. Barbarity, I must observe, is a very
equivocal term; it admits of many different forms
and degrees; and though, in all of them, it ex-
cludes polished manners, it is, however, not incon-
sistent with generous sentiments and tender affec-
tions. What degrees of friendship, love, and hero-
ism, may possibly be found to prevail in a rude
state of society, no one can say. Astonishing in-
stances of them we know, from history, have some-
times appeared : and a few characters, distinguish-
ed by high qualities, might lay a foundation for a
set of manners being introduced into the songs of
the bards, more refined, it is probable, and exalted,
according to the usual poetical licence, and the
Teal manners of the country.
In particular with respect to heroism ; the great

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 87

employment of the Celtic bards was to delineate
the characters and sing the praises of heroes. S&
Lucan :

Vos quoque qui fortes animos, belloque peremptos..
Laudibus in longum vates diffunditis aevum
Plurima securi fudistis carmina bardi.

Phars. 1. I.

Now when we consider a college or order of
men, who, cultivating poetry throughout a long
series of ages, had their imaginations continually
employed on the ideas of heroism; who had all
the poems and panegyrics, which were composed
by their predecessors, handed down to them with
care; who rivalled and endeavoured to outstrip
those who had gone before them, each in the cele-
bration of his particular hero ; is it not natural to
think, that at length the character of a hero would
appear in their songs with the highest lustre, and
be adorned with qualities truly noble? Some of
the qualities indeed which distinguish a Fingal,
moderation, humanity, and clemency, would not
probably be the first ideas of heroism occurring to
a barbarous people : but no sooner had such ideas
begun to dawn on the minds of poets, than, as the
human mind easily opens to the native representa-
tions of human perfection, they would be seized
and embraced ; they would enter into their pane-
gyrics; they would afford materials for succeed-
ing bards to work upon and improve ; they would
contribute not a little to exalt the public manners.
For such songs as these, familiar to the Celtic
warriors from their childhood, and, throughout
their whole life, both in war and in peace, their
principal entertainment, must have had a very con-
siderable influence in propagating among them real
manners, nearly approaching to the poetical; and
in forming even such a hero as Fingal. Especially
when we consider, that among their limited objects
of ambition, among the few advantages which, in
a savage state, man could obtain over man, the
chief was fame, and that immortality which they

88 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

expected to receive from their virtues and exploits,
in the songs of bards.

Having made these remarks on the Celtic poetry
and bards in general, I shall next consider the
particular advantages which Ossian possessed. He
appears clearly to have lived in a period which
enjoyed all the benefit I just now mentioned of
traditionary poetry. The exploits of Trathal,
Trenmor, and the other ancestors of Fingal, are
spoken of as familiarly known. Ancient bards are
frequently alluded to. In one remarkable passage
Ossian describes himself as living in a sort of
classical age, enlightened by the memorials of
former times, which were conveyed in the songs of
bards; and points at a period of darkness and ig-
norance which lay beyond the reach of tradition.
' His words,' says he, ' came only by halves to
our ears; they were dark as the tales of other
times, before the light of the song arose.' Ossian
himself appears to have been endowed by nature
with an exquisite sensibility of heart; prone to
that tender melancholy which is so often an at-
tendant on great genius; and susceptible equally
of strong and of soft emotions. He was not only
a professed bard, educated with care, as we may
easily believe, to all the poetical art then known
and connected, as he shows us himself, in intimate
friendship with the other contemporary bards, but
a warrior also; and the son of the most renowned
hero and prince of his age. This formed a con-
junction of circumstances uncommonly favourable
towards exalting the imagination of a poet. He
relates expeditions in which he had been engaged;
he sings of battles in which he had fought and over-
come; he had beheld the most illustrious scenes
which that age could exhibit, both of heroism in war
and magnificence in peace. For, however rude
the magnificence of those times may seem to us,
we must remember, that all ideas of magnificence
are comparative; and that the age of Fingal was
an a?ra of distinguished splendour in that part of
the world. Fingal reigned over a considerable
territory; he was enriched with the spoils of the

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 89

Roman province; he was ennobled by his victories
and great actions ; and was in all respects a person-
age of much higher dignity than any of the chieftains,
or heads of clans, who lived in the same country,
after a more extensive monarchy was established.

The manners of Ossian's age, so far as we can
gather them from his writings, were abundantly
favourable to a poetical genius. The two dispirit-
ing vices, to which Longinus imputes the decline
of poetry, covetousness and effeminacy, were as
yet unknown. The cares of men were few. They
lived a roving indolent life; hunting and war their
principal employments; and their chief amuse-
ments, the music of bards and ' the feast of shells.'
The great object pursued by heroic spirits, was
• to receive their fame;' that is, to become worthy
of being celebrated in the songs of bards; and ' to
have their name on the four grey stones.' To die
unlamented by a bard, was deemed so great a mis-
fortune as even to disturb their ghosts in another
state. « They wander in thick mists beside the
reedy lake; but never shall they rise, without the
song, to the dwelling of winds.' After death, they
expected to follow employments of the same na-
ture with those who had amused them on earth; to
fly with their friends on clouds, to pursue airy deer,
and to listen to their praise in the mouths of bards.
In such times as these, in a country where poetry
had been so long cultivated, and so highly honour-
ed, is it any wonder that, among the race and suc-
cession of bards, one Homer should arise; a man,
who, endowed with a natural happy genius, favour-
ed by peculiar advantages of birth and condition,
and meeting, in the course of his life, with a variety
of incidents proper to fire his imagination, and to
touch his heart, should attain a degree of eminence
in poetry, worthy to draw the admiration of more
refined ages ?

The compositions of Ossian are so strongly mark-
ed with characters of antiquity, that although there
were no external proof to support that antiquity.,
hardly any reader of judgment and taste could
hesitate in referring them to a very remote aera^

90 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

There are four great stages through which men suc-
cessively pass in the progress of society. The first
and earliest is the life of hunters; pasturage suc-
ceeds to this, as the ideas of property begin to take
root; next agriculture; and, lastly, commerce.
Throughout Ossian's poems, we plainly find our-
selves in the first of these periods of society;
during which, hunting was the chief employment
of men, and the principal method of their procuring
subsistence. Pasturage was not indeed wholly un-
known; for we hear of dividing the herd in the
case of a divorce; but the allusions to herds and to
cattle are not many; and of agriculture we find no
traces. No cities appear to have been built in the
territories of Fingal. No arts are mentioned, ex-
cept that of navigation and of working in iron.
Every thing presents to us the most simple and un-
improved manners. At their feasts, the heroes pre-
pared their own repast; they sat round the light of
the burning oak; the wind lifted their locks, and
whistled through their open halls. Whatever was
beyond the necessaries of life was known to them
only as the spoil of the Roman province; ' the
gold of the stranger; the lights of the stranger; the
steeds of the stranger; the children of the rein.'

The representation of Ossian's times must strike
us the more, as genuine and authentic, when it is
compared with a poem of later date, which Mr.
Macpherson has preserved in one of his notes. It
is that in which five bards are represented as pass-
ing the evening in the house of a chief, and each
of them separately giving his description of the
night. The night scenery is beautiful; and the au-
thor has plainly imitated the style and manner of
Ossian : but he has allowed some images to appear
which betray a later period of society. For we
meet with windows clapping, the herds of goats
and cows seeking shelter, the shepherd wandering,
corn on the plain, and the wakeful hind rebuilding
the shocks of corn which had been overturned by
the tempest. Whereas, in Ossian's works, from be-
ginning to end, all is consistent; no modern allu-
sion drops from him ; but every where the same

OX THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 91

face of rude nature appears ; a country wholly un-
cultivated, thinly inhabited, and recently peopled.
The grass of the rock, the flower of the heath, the
thistle with its beard, are the chief ornaments of
his landscapes. ' The desert,' says Fingal, ' is
enough for me, with all its woods and deer.'

The circle of ideas and transactions is no wider
than suits such an age ; nor any greater diversity
introduced into characters, than the events of that
period would naturally display. Valour and bo-
dily strength are the admired qualities. Conten-
tions arise, as is usual among savage nations, from
the slightest causes. To be affronted at a tourna-
ment, or to be omitted in the invitation to a feast,
kindles a war. Women are often carried away by
force : and the whole tribe, as in the Homeric times,
rise to avenge the wrong. The heroes show refine-
ment of sentiment indeed on several occasions, but
none of manners. They speak of their past ac-
tions with freedom, boast of their exploits, and
sing their own praise. In their battles, it is evi-
dent, the drums, trumpets, or bagpipes, were not
known or used. They had no expedient for giving
the military alarms but striking a shield, or raising
a loud cry : and hence the loud and terrible voice
of Fingal is often mentioned as a necessary quali-
fication of a great general; like the #ojj» cyaSof
Msi/eXao? of Homer. Of military discipline or skill
they appear to have been entirely destitute. Their
armies seem not to have been numerous; their bat-
tles were disorderly ; and terminated, for the most
part, by a personal combat, or wrestling of the two
chiefs; after which, 'the bard sung the song of
peace, and the battle ceased along the field.'

The manner of composition bears all the marks
of the greatest antiquity. No artful transitions ;
nor full and extended connexion of parts ; such as
we find among the poets of later times, when order
and regularity of composition were more studied
and known ; but a style always rapid and vehe-
ment; in narration concise, even to abruptness,
and leaving several circumstances to be supplied
by the reader's imagination. The language has all

92 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

that figurative cast, which, as I before showed,
partly a glowing and undisciplined imagination,
partly the sterility of language and the want of
proper terms, have always introduced into the early
speech of nations ; and, in several respects, it car-
ries a remarkable resemblance to the style of the
Old Testament. It deserves particular notice, as
one of the most genuine and decisive characters of
antiquity, that very few general terms, or abstract
ideas, are to be met with in the whole collection of
Ossian's works. The ideas of men, at first, were
all particular. They had not words to express ge-
neral conceptions. These were the consequence of
more profound reflection, and longer acquaintance
with the arts of thought and of speech. Ossian,
accordingly, almost never expresses himself in the
abstract. His ideas extended little farther than to
the objects he saw around him. A public, a com-
munity, the universe, were conceptions beyond his
sphere. Even a mountain, a sea, or a lake, which
he has occasion to mention, though only in a simile,
are for the most part particularised ; it is the hill
of Cromla, the storm of the sea of Malmor, or the
reeds of the lake of Lego. A mode of expression,
which, while it is characteristical of ancient ages,
is at the same time highly favourable to descrip-
tive poetry. For the same reasons, personification
is a poetical figure not very common with Ossian.
Inanimate objects, such as winds, trees, flowers, he
sometimes personifies with great beauty. But the
personifications which are so familiar to later poets,
of Fame, Time, Terror, Virtue, and the rest of that
class, were unknown to our Celtic bard. These
were modes of conception too abstract for his age.
All these are marks so undoubted, and some of
them too so nice and delicate, of the most early
times, as put the high antiquity of these poems out
of question. Especially when we consider, that if
there had been any imposture in this case, it must
have been contrived and executed in the Highlands
of Scotland two or three centuries ago ; as up to
this period, both by manuscripts, and by the testi-
mony of a multitude of living witnesses, concern.

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 93

ing the uncontrovertible tradition of these poems,
they can clearly be traced. Now this is a period
when that country enjoyed no advantages for a
composition of this kind, which it may not be sup-
posed to have enjoyed in as great, if not in a greater
degree, a thousand years before. To suppose that
two or three hundred years ago, when we well know
the Highlands to have been in a state of gross ig-
norance and barbarity, there should have arisen in
that country a poet, of such exquisite genius, and
of such deep knowledge of mankind, and of hi-
story, as to divest himself of the ideas and manners
of his own age, and to give us a just and natural
picture of a state of society ancienter by a thou-
sand years; one who could support this counter-
feited antiquity through such a large collection of
poems, without the least inconsistency ; and who,
possessed of all this genius and art, had at the
same time the self-denial of concealing himself,
and of ascribing his own works to an antiquated
bard, without the imposture being detected; is a
supposition that transcends all bounds of credibi-
lity.

There are, besides, two other circumstances to be
attended to, still of greater weight, if possible,
against this hypothesis. One is, the total absence
of religious ideas from this work ; for which the
Translator has, in his Preface, given a very probable
account, on the footing of its being the work of
Ossian. The druidical superstition was, in the
days of Ossiae, on the point of its final extinction ;
and for particular reasons odious to the family of
Fingal ; whilst the Christian faith was not yet esta-
blished. But had it been the work of one to whom
the ideas of Christianity were familiar from his in-
fancy, and who had superadded to them also the
bigoted superstition of a dark age and country, it
is impossible but in some passage or other the
traces of them would have appeared. The other
circumstance is, the entire silence which reigns
with respect to all the great clans or families which
are now established in the Highlands. The origin
of these several clans is known to be very ancient ;

9-i CRITICAL DISSERTATION

and it is as well known that there is no passion by
which a native Highlander is more distinguished
than by attachment to his clan, and jealousy for its
honour. That a Highland bard, in forging a work
relating to the antiquities of his country, should
have inserted no circumstance which pointed out
the rise of his own clan, which ascertained its an-
tiquity, or increased its glory, is, of all supposi-
tions that can be formed, the most improbable : and
the silence on this head amounts to a demonstra-
tion that the author lived before any of the present
great clans were formed or known.

Assuming it then, as well we may, for certain,
that the poems, now under consideration, are ge-
nuine venerable monuments of a very remote anti-
quity, I proceed to make some remarks upon their
general spirit and strain. The two great character-
istics of Ossian's poetry are, tenderness and sub-
limity. It breathes nothing of the gay and cheerful
kind ; an air of solemnity and seriousness is dif-
fused over the whole. Ossian is perhaps the only
poet who never relaxes, or lets himself down into
the light and amusing strain ; which I readily ad-
mit to be no small disadvantage to him, with the
bulk of readers. He moves perpetually in the high
region of the grand and the pathetic. One key-
note is struck at the beginning, and supported to
the end; nor is any ornament introduced but what
is perfectly concordant with the general tone or
melody. The events recorded are all serious and
grave; the scenery throughout wild and romantic.
The extended heath by the sea-shore; the moun-
tains shaded with mist ; the torrent rushing through
a solitary valley ; the scattered oaks, and the tombs
of warriors overgrown with moss ; all produce a
solemn attention in the mind, and prepare it for
great and extraordinary events. We find not in
Ossian an imagination that sports itself, and dresses
out gay trifles to please the fancy. His poetry,
more perhaps than that of any other writer, de-
serves to be styled, The poetry of the heart. It
is a heart penetrated with noble sentiments, and
with sublime and tender passions; a heart that

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 95

glows, aud kindles the fancy ; a heart that is full,
and pours itself forth. Ossian did not write, like
modern poets, to please readers and critics. He
sung from the love of poetry and song. His de-
light was to think of the heroes among whom he
had flourished ; to recall the affecting incidents of
his life ; to dwell upon his past wars, and loves,
and friendships ; — till, as he expresses it himself,
' there comes a voice to Ossiàn and awakes his soul.
It is the voice of years that are gone ; they roll be-
fore me with all their deeds;' and under this true
poetic inspiration, giving vent to his genius, no
wonder we should so often hear, and acknowledge,
in his strains, the powerful and ever-pleasing voice
cf nature.

Arte, natura potentior omni. —

Est Deus in nobis, agitante calescimus illo.

It is necessary here to observe, that the beauties
of Ossian's writings cannot be felt by those who
have given them only a single or hasty perusal.
His manner is so different from that of the poets to
whom we are most accustomed ; his style is so con-
cise, and so much crowded with imagery; the mind
is kept at such a stretch in accompanying the au-
thor ; that an ordinary reader is at first apt to be
dazzled and fatigued, rather than pleased. His
poems require to be taken up at intervals, and to
be frequently reviewed ; and then it is impossible
but his beauties must open to every reader who is
capable of sensibility. Those who have the highest
degree of it will relish them the most.

As Homer is, of all the great poets, the one whose
manner, and whose times, come the nearest to Os-
sian's, we are naturally led to run a parallel in
some instances between the Greek and Celtic bard.
For though Homer lived more than a thousand
years before Ossian, it is not from the age of the
world, but from the state of society, that we are to
judge of resembling times. The Greek has, in se-
veral points, a manifest superiority. He introduce*
a greater variety of incidents ; he possesses a larger

96 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

compass of ideas ; has more diversity in his cha-
racters; and a much deeper knowledge of human
nature. It was not to be expected, that in any of
these particulars Ossian could equal Homer. For
Homer lived in a country where society was much
farther advanced; he had beheld many more ob-
jects; cities built and flourishing; laws instituted ;
order, discipline, and arts, begun. His field of
observation was much larger and more splendid ;
his knowledge, of course, more extensive; his mind
also, it shall be granted, more penetrating. But if
Ossian's ideas and objects be less diversified than
those of Homer, they are all, however, of the kind
fittest for poetry : the bravery and generosity of
heroes, the tenderness of lovers, the attachment of
friends, parents, and children. In a rude age and
country, though the events that happen be few, the
undissipated mind broods over them more; they
strike the imagination, and fire the passions, in a
higher degree : and of consequence become happier
materials to a poetical genius, than the same events
when scattered through the wide circle of more va-
ried action and cultivated life.

Homer is a more cheerful and sprightly poet than
Ossian. You discern in him all the Greek viva-
city ; whereas Ossian uniformly maintains the gra-
vity and solemnity of a Celtic hero. This too is
in a great measure to be accounted for from the
different situations in which they lived, partly per-
sonal, and partly national. Ossian had survived
all his friends, and was disposed to melancholy by
the incidents of his life. But, besides this, cheer-
fulness is one of the many blessings which we owe
to formed society. The solitary wild state is al-
ways a serious one. Bating the sudden and vio-
lent bursts of mirth, which sometimes break forth
at their dances and feasts, the savage American
tribes have been noted by all travellers for their
gravity and taciturnity. Somewhat of this tacitur-
nity may be also remarked in Ossian. On all oc-
casions he is frugal of his words; and never gives
you more of an image, or a description, than is just
sufficient to place it before you in one clear point

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 97

of view. It is a blaze of lightning, which flashes
and vanishes. Homer is more extended in his de-
scriptions ; and fills them up with a great variety
of circumstances. Both the poets are dramatic ;
that is, they introduce their personages frequently
speaking before us. But Ossian is concise and ra-
pid in his speeches, as he is in every other thing.
Homer, with the Greek vivacity, had also some por-
tion of the Greek loquacity. His speeches indeed
are highly characteristical : and to them we are
much indebted for that admirable display he has
given of human nature. Vet, if he be tedious any
where, it is in these ; some of them are trifling ;
and some of them plainly unseasonable. Both
poets are eminently sublime ; but a difference may
be remarked in the species of their sublimity. Ho-
mer's sublimity is accompanied with more impetu-
osity and fire; Ossian's with more of a solemn and
awful grandeur. Homer hurries you along; Os-
sian elevates, and fixes you in astonishment. Ho-
mer is most sublime in actions and battles ; Ossian,
in description and sentiment. In the pathetic, Ho-
mer, when he chooses to exert it, has great power;
but Ossian exerts that power much oftener, and
has the character of tenderness far more deeply
imprinted on his works. No poet knew better how
to seize and melt the heart. With regard to dig-
nity of sentiment, the pre-eminence must clearly be
given to Ossian. This is, indeed, a surprising cir-
cumstance, that in point of humanity, magnanimity,
virtuous feelings of every kind, our rude Celtic
bard should be distinguished to such a degree, that
not only the heroes of Homer, but even those of
the polite and refined Virgil, are left far behind by
those of Ossian.

After these general observations on the genius
and spirit of our author, I now proceed to a nearer
view and more accurate examination of his works:
and as Fingal is the first great poem in this collec-
tion, it is proper to begin with it. To refuse the
title of an epic poem to Fingal, because it is not,
in every little particular, exactly conformable to
the practice of Homer and Virgil, were the mere

98 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

squeamishness and pedantry of criticism. Exa-
mined even according to Aristotle's rules, it will be
found to have all the essential requisites of a true
and regular epic ; and to have several of them in
so high a degree, as at first view to raise our asto-
nishment on finding Ossian's composition so agree-
able to rules of which he was entirely ignorant.
But our astonishment will cease, when we consider
from what source Aristotle drew those rules. Ho-
mer knew no more of the laws of criticism than
Ossian. But, guided by nature, he composed in
verse a regular story, founded on heroic actions,
which all posterity admired. Aristotle, with great
sagacity and penetration, traced the causes of this
general admiration. He observed what it was in
Homer's composition, and in the conduct of his
story, which gave it such power to please; from
this observation he deduced the rules which poets
ought to follow, who would write and please like
Homer ; and to a composition formed according to
such rules, he gave the name of an epic poem.
Hence his whole system arose. Aristotle studied
nature in Homer. Homer and Ossian both wrote
from nature. No wonder that among all the three
there should be such agreement and conformity.

The fundamental rules delivered by Aristotle,
concerning an epic poem, are these: That the ac-
tion; which is the ground-work of the poem, should
be one, complete, and great; that it should be
feigned, not merely historical ; that it should be
enlivened with characters and manners, and height-
ened by the marvellous.

But, before entering on any of these, it may per-
haps be asked, what is the moral of Fingal ? For,
according to M. Bossu, an epic poem is no other
than an allegory contrived to illustrate some moral
truth. The poet, says this critic, must begin with
fixing on some maxim or instruction which he in-
tends to inculcate on mankind. He next forms a
fable, like one of yEsop's, wholly with a view to the
moral; and having thus sottlcd and arranged his
plan, he then looks into traditionary history for
names and incidents, to give his fable some air of

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. gg

probability. Never did a more frigid, pedantic
notion enter into the mind of a critic. We may
safely pronounce, that he who should compose an
epic poem after this manner, who should first lay
down a moral and contrive a plan, before he had
thought of his personages and actors, might deliver
indeed very sound instruction, but would find very
few readers. There cannot be the least doubt that
the first object which strikes an epic poet, which
fires his genius, and gives him any idea of his work,
is the action or subject he is to celebrate. Hardly
is there any tale, any subject, a poet can choose
for such a work, but will afford some general mo-
ral instruction. An epic poem is, by its nature,
one of the most moral of all poetical compositions :
but its moral tendency is by no means to be limit-
ed to some common-place maxim, which may be
gathered from the story. It arises from the ad-
miration of heroic actions, which such a composi-
tion is peculiarly calculated to produce; from the
virtuous emotions which the characters and inci-
dents raise, whilst we read it; from the happy im-
pressions which all the parts separately, as well as
the whole together, leave upon the mind. However,
if a general moral be still insisted on, Fingal ob-
viously furnishes one, not inferior to that of any
other poet, viz. That wisdom and bravery always
triumph over brutal force; or another, nobler still;
That the most complete victory over an enemy is
obtained by that moderation and generosity which
convert him into a friend.

The unity of the epic action, which, of all Ari-
stotle's rules, is the chief and most material, is so
strictly preserved in Fingal, that it must be per-
ceived by every reader. It is a more complete
unity than what arises from relating the actions of
one man, which the Greek critic justly censures as
imperfect; it is the unity of one enterprise, the de-
liverance of Ireland from the invasion of Swaran :
an enterprise which has surely the full heroic dig-
nity. All the incidents recorded bear a constant
reference to one end ; no double plot is carried on ;
but the parts unite into a regular whole: and as

100 CRITICAL DISSERTATION"

the action is one and great., so it is an entire or
complete action. For we find, as the critic farther
requires, a beginning, a middle, and an end ; a no-
dus, or intrigue in the poem; difficulties occurring
through Cuthullin's rashness and bad success; those
difficulties gradually surmounted ; and at last the
work conducted to that happy conclusion which is
held essential to epic poetry. Unity is indeed ob-
served with greater exactness in Fingal, than in
almost any other epic composition. For not only
is unity of subject maintained, but that of time
and place also. The autumn is clearly pointed
out as the season of the action; and from begin-
ning to end the scene is never shifted from the
heath of Lena, along the sea-shore. The duration
of the action in Fingal, is much shorter than in the
Iliad or iEneid, but sure there may be shorter as
well as longer heroic poems; and if the authority
of Aristotle be also required for this, he says ex-
pressly, that the epic composition is indefinite as
to the time of its duration. Accordingly the action
of the Iliad lasts only forty-seven days, whilst that
of the iEneid is continued for more than a year.

Throughout the whole of Fingal, there reigns
that grandeur of sentiment, style, and imagery,
which ought ever to distinguish this high species
of poetry. The story is conducted with no small
art. The poet goes not back to a tedious recital
of the beginning of the war with Swaran; but
hastening to the main action, he falls in exactly,
by a most happy coincidence of thought, with the
rule of Horace.

Semper ad eventum festinat, et in medias res,

Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit

Nee gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo.
De Arte Poet.

He invokes no muse, for he acknowledged none :
but his occasional addresses to Malvina have a
finer effect than the invocation of any muse. He
sets out with no formal proposition of his subject;
but the subject naturally and easily unfolds itself;
the poem opening in an animated manner, with the

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 101
situation of Cuthullin, and the arrival of a scout
who informs him of Swarau's landing. Mention is
presently made of Fingal, and of the expected as-
sistance of the ships of the lonely isle, in order to
give further light to the subject. For the poet
often shows his address in gradually preparing us
for the events he is to introduce; and in particular
the preparation for the appearance of Fingal, the
previous expectations that are raised, and the ex-
treme magnificence, fully answering these expecta-
tions, with which the hero is at length presented
to us, are all worked up with such skilful conduct
as would do honour to any poet of the most refined
times. Homer's art in magnifying the character of
Achilles has been universally admired. Ossian cer-
tainly shows no less art in aggrandising Fingal. No-
thing could be more happily imagined for this pur-
pose than the whole management of the last battle,
wherein Gaul, the son of Morni, had besought Fin-
gal to retire, and to leave to him and his other chiefs
the honour of the day. The generosity of the king
in agreeing to this proposal ; the majesty with which
he retreats to the hill, from whence he was to be-
hold the engagement, attended by his bards, and
•waving the lightning of his sword; his perceiving
the chiefs overpowered by numbers, but, from un-
willingness to deprive them of the glory of victory
by coming in person to thein assistance, first send-
ing Ullin, the bard, to animate their courage ; and
at last, when the danger becomes more pressing,
his rising in his might, and interposing, like a di-
vinity, to decide the doubtful fate of the day ; are
all circumstances contrived with so much art as
plainly discover the Celtic bards to have been not
unpractised in heroic poetry.

The story which is the foundation of the Iliad is
in itself as simple as that of Fingal. A quarrel
arises between Achilles and Agamemnon concern-
ing a female slave ; on which Achilles, apprehend-
ing himself to be injured, withdraws his assistance
from the rest of the Greeks. The Greeks fall into
great distress, and beseech him to be reconciled to
them. He refuses to fight for them in person, but

102 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

sends his friend Patroclus ; and upon his being slain,
goes forth to revenge his death, and kills Hector.
The subject of Fingal is this : Swaran comes to in-
vade Ireland: Cuthullin, the guardian of the young
king, had applied for assistance to Fingal, who reign-
ed in the opposite coast of Scotland. But before
Fingal's arrival, he is hurried by rash counsel to
encounter Swaran. He is defeated; he retreats;
and desponds. Fingal arrives in this conjuncture.
The battle is for some time dubious ; but in the end
he conquers Swaran ; and the remembrance of Swa-
ran's being the brother of Agandecca, who had once
saved his life, makes him dismiss him honourably.
Homer, it is true, has filled up his story with a
much greater variety of particulars than Ossian ;
and in this has shown a compass of invention su-
perior to that of the other poet. But it must not
be forgotten, that, though Homer be more circum-
stantial, his incidents however are less diversified
in kind than those of Ossian. War and bloodshed
reign throughout the Iliad; and, notwithstanding
all the fertility of Homer's invention, there is so
much uniformity in his subjects, that there are few
readers, who, before the close, are not tired with
perpetual fighting. Whereas in Ossian, the mind
is relieved by a more agreeable diversity. There
is a finer mixture of war and heroism, with love
and friendship, of martial with tender scenes, than
is to be met with, perhaps, in any other poet. The
episodes too have great propriety; as natural, and
proper to that age and country : consisting of the
songs of bards, which are known to have been the
great entertainment of the Celtic heroes in war, as
well as in peace. These songs are not introduced
at random : if you except the episode of Duchom-
lYiar and Morna, in the first book, which, though
beautiful, is more unartful than any of the rest;
they have always some particular relation to the
actor who is interested, or to the events which are
going on ; and, whilst they vary the scene, they pre-
serve a sufficient connexion with the main subject
by the fitness and propriety of their introduction.
As Fingal's love to Agandecca influences some cir-

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 103
cumstances of the poem, particularly the honour-
able dismission of Swaran at the end, it was ne-
cessary that we should be let into this part of the
hero's story. But as it lay without the compass of
the present action, it could be regularly intro-
duced nowhere, except in an episode. Accordingly
the poet, with as much propriety as if Aristotle
himself had directed the plan, has contrived an
episode for this purpose in the song of Carril, at
the beginning of the third book.

The conclusion of the poem is strictly according
to rule; and is every way noble and pleasing. The
reconciliation of the contending heroes, the conso-
lation of Cuthullin, and the general felicity that
crowns the action, soothe the mind in a very agree-
able manner, and form that passage from agitation
and trouble, to perfect quiet and repose, which cri-
tics require as the proper termination of the epic
work. ' Thus they passed the night in song, and
brought back the morning with joy. Fingal arose
on the heath ; and shook his glittering spear in his
hand. He moved first towards the plains of Lena ;
and we followed like a ridge of fire. Spread the
sail, said the king of Morven, and catch the winds
that pour from Lcn?.. We rose on the wave with
songs ; and rushed with joy through the foam of
the ocean.' So much for the unity and general
conduct of the epic action in Fingal.

With regard to that property of the subject which
Aristotle requires, that it should be feigned, not
historical, he must not be understood so strictly as
if he meant to exclude all subjects which have any
foundation in truth. For such exclusion would
both be unreasonable in itself, and, what is more,
would be contrary to the practice of Homer, who is
known to have founded his Iliad on historical facts
concerning the war of Troy, which was famous
throughout all Greece. Aristotle means no more
than that it is the business of a poet not to be a
mere annalist of facts, but to embellish truth with
beautiful, probable, and useful fictions ; to copy
nature, as he himself explains it, like painters, who
preserve a likeness, but exhibit their objects more

104 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

grand and beautiful than they are in reality. That
Ossian has followed this course, and, building upon
true history, has sufficiently adorned it with po-
etical fiction for aggrandizing his characters and
facts, will not, I believe, be questioned by most
leaders. At the same time, the foundation which
those facts and characters had in truth, and the
share which the poet himself had in the transac-
tions which he records, must be considered as no
small advantage to his work. For truth makes an
impression on the mind far beyond any fiction ; and
no man, let his imagination be ever so strong, re-
lates any events so feelingly as those in which he
has been interested; paints any scene so naturally
as one which he has seen; or draws any characters
in such stroDg colours as those which he has per-
sonally known. It is considered as an advantage
of the epic subject to be taken from a period so di-
stant, as, by being involved in the darkness of tra-
dition, may give licence to fable. Though Ossian's
subject may at first view appear unfavourable in
this respect, as being taken from his own times, yet,
when we reflect that he lived to an extreme old age ;
that he relates what had been transacted in another
country, at the distance of many years, and after
all that race of men who had been the actors were
gone off the stage; we shall find the objection in a
great measure obviated. In so rude an age, when
no written records were known, when tradition was
loose, and accuracy of any kind little attended to,
what was great and heroic in one generation, easily
ripened into the marvellous in the next.

The natural representation of human characters
in an epic poem is highly essential to its merit, and,
in respect of this, there can be no doubt of Homer's
excelling all the heroic poets who have ever wrote.
But though Ossian be much inferior to Homer in
this article, he will be found to be equal at least, if
not superior, to Virgil; and has indeed given all
the display of human nature, which the simple oc-
currences of his times could be expected to furnish.
No dead uniformity of character prevails in Fin-
gal; but, on the contrary, the principal characters

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 10.5
are not only clearly distinguished, but sometimes
artfully contrasted, so as to illustrate each other.
Ossian's heroes are, likeYlomer's, all brave; but
their bravery, like those of Homer's too, is of dif-
ferent kinds. For instance, the prudent, the sedate,
the modest, and circumspect Connal, is finely op-
posed to the presumptuous, rash, overbearing, but
gallant and generous Calmar. Calmar hurries Cu-
thullin into action by his temerity ; and when he
sees the bad effects of his counsels, he will .not sur-
vive the disgrace. Connal, like another Ulysses,
attends Cuthullin to his retreat, counsels and com-
forts him under his misfortune. The fierce, the
proud, and high-spirited Swaran, is admirably con-
trasted with the calm, the moderate, and generous
Fingal. The character of Oscar is a favourite one
throughout the whole poems. The amiable warmth
of the young warrior ; his eager impetuosity in the
day of action ; his passion for fame ; his submis-
sion to his father ; his tenderness for Malvina ; are
the strokes of a masterly pencil : the strokes are
few ; but it is the hand of nature, and attracts the
heart. Ossian's own character, the old man, the
hero, and the bard, all in one, presents to us,
through the whole work, a most respectable and
venerable figure, which we always contemplate with
pleasure, Cuthullin is a hero of the highest class:
daring, magnanimous, and exquisitely sensible to
honour. We become attached to his interest, and
are deeply touched with his distress; and after
the admiration raised for him in the first part of
the poem, it is a strong proof of Ossian's masterly
genius that he durst adventure to produce to us
another hero, compared with whom, even the great
Cuthullin should be only an inferior personage;
and who should rise as far above him, as Cuthullin
rises above the rest.

Here, indeed, in the character and description of
Fingal, Ossian triumphs almost unrivalled; for we
may boldly defy all antiquity to show us any hero
equal to Fingal. Homer's Hector possesses several
great and amiable qualities; but Hector is a se-
condary personage in the Iliad, not the hero of the
work. We see him only occasionally ; we know
F 2

106 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

much less of him than we do of Fingal; who, no6
only in this epic poem, but in Temora, and through-
out the rest of Ossian's works, is presented in all
that variety of lights, which give the full display of
a character. And though Hector faithfully dis-
charges his duty to his country, his friends, and his
family, he is tinctured, however, with a degree of
the same savage ferocity, which prevails among all
the Homeric heroes. For we find him insulting over
the fallen Patroclus, with the most cruel taunts,
and telling him, when he lies in the agony of death,
that Achilles cannot help him now ; and that in a
short time his body, stripped naked, and deprived
of funeral honours, shall be devoured by the vul-
tures. Whereas in the character of Fingal concur
almost all the qualities that can ennoble human na-
ture; that can either make us admire the hero, or
love the man. He is not only unconquerable in
war, but he makes his people happy by his wisdom
in the days of peace. He is truly the father of his
people. He is known by the epithet of ' Fingal of
the mildest look ;' and distinguished, on every oc-
casion, by humanity and generosity. He is merci-
ful to his foes ; full of affection to his children ;
full of concern about his friends ; and never men-
tions Agandecca, his first love, without the utmost
tenderness. He is the universal protector of the
distressed ; ' None ever went sad from Fingal.' —
' O, Oscar ! bend the strong in arms ; but spare the
feeble hand. Be thou a stream of many tides against
the foes of thy people ; but like the gale that moves
the grass, to those who ask thine aid. So Trenmor
lived ; such Trathal was ; and such has Fingal been.
My arm was the support of the injured; the weak
rested behind the lightning of my steel.' These
were the maxims of true heroism, to which he
formed his grandson. His fame is represented as
every where spread; the greatest heroes acknow-
ledge his superiority; his enemies tremble at his
name; and the highest encomium that can be be-
stowed on one whom the poet would most exalt, is
to say, that his soul was like the soul of Fingal.

To do justice to the poet's merit, in supporting
such a character as this, I must observe, what is

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 107
not commonly attended to, that there is no part of
poetical execution more difficult, than to draw a
perfect character in such a manner, as to render it
distinct and affecting to the mind. Some strokes of
human imperfection and frailty are what usually
give us the most clear view, and the most sensible
impression of a character; because they present to
us a man, such as we have seen ; they recall known
features of human nature. When poets attempt to
go beyond this range, and describe a faultless her„,
they, for the most part, set before us a sort of vague
undistinguishable character, such as the imagina-
tion cannot lay hold of, or realize to itself, as the
object of affection. We know how much Virgil has
failed in this particular. His perfect hero, jEneas,
is an unanimated insipid personage, whom we may
pretend to admire, but whom no one can heartily
love. But what Virgil has failed in, Ossian, to our
astonishment, has successfully executed. His Fin-
gal, though exhibited without any of the common
human failings, is nevertheless a real man ; a cha-
racter which touches and interests every reader.
To this it has much contributed that the poet has
represented him as an old man; and by this has
gained the advantage of throwing around him a
great many circumstances, peculiar to that age,
which paint him to the fancy in a more distinct
light. He is surrounded with his family; he in-
structs his children in the principles of virtue; he
is narrative of his past exploits; he is venerable
with the gray locks of age; he is frequently die-
posed to moralize, like an old man, on human
vanity, and the prospect of death. There is more
art, at least more felicity, in this, than may at first
be imagined. For youth and old age are the two
states of human life, capable of being placed in the
most picturesque lights. Middle age is more ge-
neral and vague ; and has fewer circumstances pe-
culiar to the idea of it. And when any object is
in a situation that admits it to be rendered parti-
cular, and to be clothed with a variety of circum-
stances, it always stands out more clear and full in
poetical description.

Besides human personages, divine or superna-

108 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

tural agents are often introduced into epic poetry;
forming what is called the machinery of it ; which
most critics hold to be an essential part. The mar-
vellous, it must be admitted, has always a great
charm for the bulk of readers. It gratifies the ima-
gination, and affords room for striking and sublime
description. No wonder, therefore, that all poets
should have a strong propensity towards it. But 1
must observe, that nothing is more difficult, than to
adjust properly the marvellous with the probable.
If a poet sacrifice probability, and fill his work
with extravagant supernatural scenes, he spreads
over it an appearance of romance and childish fic-
tion; he transports his readers from this world
into a fantastic visionary region ; and loses that
weight and dignity which should reign in epic
poetry. No work, from which probability is alto-
gether banished, can make a lasting or deep impres-
sion. Human actions and manners are always the
most interesting objects which can be presented to
a human mind. All machinery, therefore, is faulty,
which withdraws these too much from view, or ob-
scures them under a cloud of incredible fictions.
Besides being temperately employed, machinery
ought always to have some foundation in popular
belief. A poet is by no means at liberty to invent
what system of the marvellous he pleases : he must
avail himself either of the religious faith, or the
superstitious credulity of the country wherein he
lives; so as to give an air of probability to events
which are most contrary to the common course of
nature.

In these respects, Ossian appears to me to have
been remarkably happy. He has indeed followed
the same course with Homer. For it is perfectly
absurd to imagine, as some critics have done, that
Homer's mythology was invented by him, in conse-
quence of profound reflections on the benefit it
would yield to poetry. Homer was no such refin-
ing genius. He found the traditionary stories, on
which he built his Iliad, mingled with popular le-
gends concerning the intervention of the gods; and
he adopted these because they amused the fancy.
Ossian, in like manner, found the tales of his coun-

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 109
try full of ghosts and spirits : it is likely he believed
them himself; and he introduced them, because
they gave his poems that solemn and marvellous
cast, which suited his genius. This was the only
machinery he could employ with propriety; be-
cause it was the only intervention of supernatural
beings which agreed with the common belief of the
country. It was happy; because it did not inter-
fere in the least with the proper display of human
characters and actions ; because it had less of the
incredible, than most other kinds of poetical ma-
chinery; and because it served to diversify the
scene, and to heighten the subject by an awful
grandeur, which is the great design of machinery.

As Ossian's mythology is peculiar to himself,
and makes a considerable figure in his other poems,
as well as in Fingal, it may be proper to make
some observations on it, independent of its sub-
serviency to epic composition. It turns, for the
most part, on the appearances of departed spirits.
These, consonantly to the notions of every rude
age, are represented not as purely immaterial, but
as thin airy forms, which can be visible or invisi-
ble at pleasure: their voice is feeble, their arm is
weak ; but they are endowed with knowledge more
than human. In a separate state, they retain the
same dispositions which animated them in this life.
They ride on the wind ; they bend their airy bows ;
and pursue deer formed of clouds. The ghosts of
departed bards continue to sing. The ghosts of
departed heroes frequent the fields of their former
fame. ' They rest together in their caves, and talk
of mortal men. Their songs are of other worlds.
They come sometimes to the ear of rest, and raise
their feeble voice.' All this presents to us much
the same set of ideas, concerning spirits, as we find
in the eleventh book of the Odyssey, where Ulysses
visits the regions of the dead ; and in the twenty-
third book of the Iliad, the ghost of Patroclus,
after appearing to Achilles, vanishes precisely like
one of Ossian's, emitting a shrill, feeble cry, and
melting away like smoke.

But though Homer's and Ossian's ideas concerning

110 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

ghosts were of the same nature, we cannot but ob-
serve, that Ossian's ghosts are drawn with much
stronger and livelier colours than those of Homer.
Ossian describes ghosts with all the particularity of
one who had seen and conversed with them, and
whose imagination was full of the impression they
had left upon it. He calls up those awful and tre-
mendous ideas which the

Simulacra modis pallentia miris

are fitted to raise in the human mind ; and which,
in Shakspeare's style, ' harrow up the soul.' Crugal's
ghost, in particular, in the beginning of the second
book of Fingal, may vie with any appearance of
this kind, described by any epic or tragic poet
whatever. Most poets would have contented them-
selves with telling us, that he resembled, in every
particular, the living Crugal ; that his form and
dress were the same, only his face more pale and
sad ; and that he bore the mark of the wound by
which he fell. But Ossian sets before our eyes a
spirit from the invisible world, distinguished by all
those features which a strong astonished imagina-
tion would give to a ghost. ' A dark-red stream
of fire comes down from the hill. Crugal sat upon
the beam ; he that lately fell by the hand of Swa-
ran, striving in the battle of heroes. His. face is
like the beam of the setting moon. His robes are
of the clouds of the hill. His eyes are like two
decaying flames. Dark is the wound of his breast.
— The stars dim-twinkled through his form; and
his voice was like the sound of a distant stream.'
The circumstance of the stars being beheld, ' dim-
twinkling through his form,' is wonderfully pic-
turesque ; and conveys the most lively impression of
his thin and shadowy substance. The attitude in
which he is afterwards placed, and the speech put
into his mouth, are full of that solemn and awful
sublimity, which suits the subject. 'Dim, and in
tears, he stood, and stretched his pale hand over the
hero. Faintly he raised his feeble voice, like the
gale of the reedy Lego. — My ghost, O Connal ! is on
my native hills : but my corse is on the sands of

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. HI
Ullin. Thou shalt never talk with Crugal, or find
his lone steps in the heath. I am light as the blast
of Cromla ; and I move like the shadow of mist.
Connal, son of Colgar ; I see the dark cloud of
death. It hovers over the plains of Lena. The sons
of green Erin shall fall. Remove from the field of
ghosts.— Like the darkened moon he retired in the
midst of the whistling blast.'

Several other appearances of spirits might be
pointed out, as among the most sublime passages of
Ossian's poetry. The circumstances of them are
considerably diversified; and the scenery always
suited to the occasion. ' Oscar slowly ascends the
hill. The meteors of night set on the heath before
him. A distant torrent faintly roars. Unfrequent
blasts rush through aged rocks. The half-enlight-
ened moon sinks dim and red behind her hill.
Feeble voices are heard on the heath. Oscar drew

his sword.' Nothing can prepare the fancy more

happily for the awful scene that is to follow,
' Trenmor came from his hill, at the voice of his
mighty son. A cloud, like the steed of the stranger,
supported his airy limbs. His robe is of the mist
of Lano, that brings death to the people. His
sword is a green meteor, half-extinguished. His
face is without form, and dark. He sighed thrice
over the hero: and thrice the winds of the night
roared around. Many were his words to Oscar —
He slowly vanished, like a mist that melts on the
sunny hill.' To appearances of this kind, we can
find no parallel among the Greek or Roman poets.
They bring to mind that noble description in the
book of Job: • In thoughts from the visions of the
night, when deep sleep falleth on men, fear came
upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones
to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face.
The hair of my flesh stood up. It stood still: but
I could not discern the form thereof. An image was
before mine eyes. Ihere was silence; and I heard
a voice — Shall mortal man be more just than God ?'

As Ossian's supernatural beings are described
with a surprising force of imagination, so they are
introduced wiih propriety. We ha\e only three

112 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

ghosts in Fingal : that of Crugal, which comes to
warn the host of impending destruction, and to ad-
vise them to save themselves by retreat ; that of
Evirallin, the spouse of Ossian, which calls him to
rise and rescue their son from danger ; and that of
Agandecca, which, just before the last engagement
with Swaran, moves Fingal to pity, by mourning for
the approaching destruction of her kinsmen and
people. In the other poems, ghosts sometimes ap-
pear when invoked to foretel futurity; frequently,
according to the notions of these times, they come as
forerunners of misfortune or death, to those whom
they visit; sometimes they inform their friends at
a distance, of their own death ; and sometimes they
are introduced to heighten the scenery on some great
and solemn occasion. « A hundred oaks burn to
the wind ; and faint light gleams over the heath.
The ghosts of Ardven pass through the beam ; and
show their dim and distant forms. Comala is half-
unseen on her meteor; and Hidallan is sullen and
dim.' — « The awful faces of other times looked from
the clouds of Crona.' — ' Fercuth ! I saw the ghost
of night. Silent he stood on that bank ; his robe
of mist flew on the wind. I could behold his tears.
An aged man he seemed, and full of thought.'

The ghosts of strangers mingle not with those of
the natives. « She is seen ; but not like the daugh-
ters of the hill. Her robes are from the strangers'
land; and she is still alone.' When the ghost of
one whom we had formerly known is introduced,
the propriety of the living character is still pre-
served. This is remarkable in the appearance of
Calmar's ghost, in the poem entitled, The Death of
Cuthullin. He seems to forebode Cuthullin's death,
and to beckon him to his cave. Cuthullin reproaches
him for supposing that he could be intimidated by
such prognostics. « Why dost thou bend thy dark
eyes on me, ghost of the carbome Calmar ? Wouldst
thou frighten me, O Matha'sson ! from the battles of
Cormac ? Thy hand was not feeble in war ; neither
was thy voice for peace. How art thou changed,
chief of Lara ! if now thou dost advise to fly ! Re-
tire thou to thy cave: thou art not Calmar's ghost :

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAX. 1\$
he delighted in battle ; and his arm was like the
thunder of heaven.' Calmar makes no return to
this seeming reproach : but, ' He retired in his
blast with joy; for he had heard the voice of his
praise.' This is precisely the ghost of Achilles in
Homer; who, notwithstanding all the dissatisfaction
he expresses with his state in the region of the dead,
as soon as he had heard his son Neoptolemus praised
for his gallant behaviour, strode away with silent
joy to rejoin the rest of the shades.

It is a great advantage of Ossian's mythology, that
it is not local aud temporary, like that of most other
ancient poets; which of course is apt to seem ridi-
culous, after the superstitions have passed away on
which it was founded. Ossian's mythology is, to
speak so, the mythology of human nature ; for it is
founded on what has been the popular belief, in all
ages and countries, and under all forms of religion,
concerning the appearances of departed spirits.
Homer's machinery is always lively and amusing ;
but far from being always supported with proper
dignity. The indecent squabbles among his gods,
surely do no honour to epic poetry. Whereas
Ossian's machinery has dignity upon all occasions.
It is indeed a dignity of the dark and awful kind ;
but this is proper; because coincident with the
strain and spirit of the poetry. A light and gay
mythology, like Homer's, would have been perfectly
unsuitable to the subjects on which Ossian's genius
was employed. But though his machinery be always
solemn, it is not, however, always dreary or dismal ;
it is enlivened, as much as the subject would per-
mit, by those pleasant and beautiful appearances,
which he sometimes introduces of the spirits of the
hill. These are gentle spirits; descending on sun-
beams, fair moving on the plain ; their forms white
and bright; their voices sweet; aud their visits to
men propitious. The greatest praise that can be given
to the beauty of a living woman, is to say, ■ She is
fair as the ghost of the hill, when it moves in a
sunbeam at noon, over the silence of Morven.'
' The hunter shall hear my voice from his booth.
He shall fear, but love my voice. For sweet shall

114 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

my voice be for my friends; for pleasant were

they to me.'

Besides ghosts, or the spirits of departed men, we
find in Ossian some instances of other kinds of ma-
chinery. Spirits of a superior nature to ghosts are
sometimes alluded to, which have power to embroil
the deep; to call forth winds and storms, and pour
them on the land of thestranger ; to overturn forests,
and to send death among the people. We have pro-
digies too ; a shower of blood ; and when some dis-
aster is befalling at a distance, the sound of death
heard on the strings of Ossian's harp : all perfectly
consonant, not only to the peculiar ideas of northern
nations, but to the general current of a superstitious
imagination in all countries. The description of
Fingal's airy hall, in the poem called Berrathon,
and of the ascent of Malvina into it, deserves par-
ticular notice, as remarkably noble and magnifi-
cent. But, above all, the engagement of Fingal with
the spirit of Loda, in Carric-thura, cannot be men-
tioned without admiration. I forbear transcribing
the passage, as it must have drawn the attention
of every one who has read the works of Ossian.
The undaunted courage of Fingal, opposed to all
the terrors of the Scandinavian god ; the appear-
ance and the speech of that awful spirit ; the wound
which he receives, and the shriek which he sends
forth, ' as, rolled into himself, he rose upon the
wind,' are full of the most amazing and terrible
majesty. I know no passage more sublime in the
writings of any uninspired author. The fiction is
calculated to aggrandize the hero; which it does
to a high degree: nor is it so unnatural or wild a
fiction as might at first be thought. According to
the notions of those times, supernatural beings were
material, and, consequently, vulnerable. The
6pirit of Loda was not acknowledged as a deity by
Fingal ; he did not worship at the stone of his
power; he plainly considered him as the god of
his enemies only; as a local deity, whose domi-
nion extended no farther than to the regions where
he was worshipped ; who had, therefore, no title to
threaten him, and no claim to his submission. We

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 1 1 ,
know there are poetical precedents of great autho-
rity, for fictions fully as extravagant ; and if Homer
be forgiven for making Diomed attack and wound
in battle the gods whom that chief himself wor-
shipped, Ossian surely is pardonable for making
his hero superior to the god of a foreign territory.

Notwithstanding the poetical advantages which I
have ascribed toOssian's machinery, I acknowledge
it would have been much more beautiful and per-
fect had the author discovered some knowledge of
a Supreme Being. Although his silence on this head
has been accounted for by the learned and ingeni-
ous Translator in a very probable manner, yet still
it must be held a considerable disadvantage to the
poetry. For the most august and lofty ideas that
can embellish poetry are derived from the belief of
a Divine administration of the universe: and hence
the invocation of a Supreme Being, or at least of
some superior powers, who are conceived as pre-
siding over human affairs, the solemnities of reli-
gious worship, prayers preferred, and assistance
implored on critical occasions, appear with great
dignity in the works of almost all poets, as chief
ornaments of their compositions. The absence of
all such religious ideas from Ossian's poetry is a
sensible blank in it ; the more to be regretted, as
we can easily imagine( what an illustrious figure
they would have made under the management of
such a genius as his ; and how finely they would
have been adapted to many situations which occur
in his works.

After so particular an examination of Fingal, it
were needless to enter into as full a discussion of
the conduct of Temora, the other epic poem. Many
of the same observations, especially with regard to
the great characteristics of heroic poetry, apply to
both. The high merit, however, of Temora, requires
that we should not pass it by without some remarks.

The scene of Temora, as of Fingal, is laid in Ire-
land; and the action is of a posterior date. The
subject is, an expedition of the hero to dethrone and
punish a bloody usurper, and to restore the posses-
sion of the kingdom to the pof terity of the lawful

116 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

prince; an undertaking worthy of the justice and
heroism of the great Fingal. The action is one and
complete. The poem opens with the descent of
Fingal on the coast, and the consultation held
among the chiefs of the enemy. The murder of
the young prince Cormac, which was the cause of
the war, being antecedent to the epic action, is in-
troduced with great propriety as an episode in the
first book. In the progress of the poem, three
battles are described, which rise in their import-
ance above one another ; the success is various,
and the issue for some time doubtful ; till at last,
Fingal brought into distress, by the wound of his
great general Gaul, and the death of his son Fillan,
assumes the command himself; and, having slain
the Irish king in single combat, restores the right-
ful heir to his throne.

Temora has perhaps less fire than the other epic
poem ; but in return it has more variety, more ten-
derness, and more magnificence. The reigning idea,
so often presented to us, of " Fingal, in the last of his
fields," is venerable and affecting ; nor could any
more noble conclusion be thought of, than the aged
hero, after so many successful achievements, taking
his leave of battles, and, with all the solemnities of
those times, resigning his spear to his son. The
events are less crowded in Temora than in Fingal ;
actions and characters are more particularly dis-
played ; we are let into the transactions of both
hosts ; and informed of the adventures of the night
as well as of the day. The still, pathetic, and the
romantic scenery of several of the night adven-
tures, so remarkably suited to Ossian's genius, occa-
sion a fine diversity in the poem ; and are happily
contrasted with the military operations of the day.

In most of our author's poems the horrors of war
are softened by intermixed scenes of love and friend-
ship. In Fingal these are introduced as episodes ;
in Temora we have an incident of this nature
wrought into the body of the piece, in the adventure
of Cathmor and Sulmalla. This forms one of the
most conspicuous beauties of that poem. The dis-
tress of Sulmalla, disguised and unknown among

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. H7

strangers, her tender and anxious concern for the
safety of Cathmor, her dream, and her melting re-
membrance of the land of her fathers ; Cathmor's
emotion when he first discovers her, his struggles
to conceal and suppress his passion, lest it should
unman him in the midst of war, though « his soul
poured forth in secret, when he beheld her fearful
eye,' and the last interview between them, when,
overcome by her tenderness, he lets her know he
had discovered her, and confesses his passion ; are
all wrought up with the most exquisite sensibility
and delicacy.

Besides the characters which appeared in Fingal,
several new ones are here introduced ; and though,
as they are all the characters of warriors, bravery is
the predominant feature, they are nevertheless di-
versified in a sensible and striking manner. Fol-
dath, for instance, the general of Cathmor, exhibits
the perfect picture of a savage chieftain : bold and
daring, but presumptuous, cruel, and overhearing.
He is distinguished on his first appearance as the
friend of the tyrant Cairbar ; * His stride is
haughty ; his red eye rolls in wrath.' In his per-
son and whole deportment he is contrasted with
the mild and wise Hidalla, another leader of the
same army, on whose humanity and gentleness he
looks with great contempt. He professedly delights
in strife and blood. He insults over the fallen. He
is imperious in his counsels, and factious when
they are not followed. He is unrelenting in all his
schemes of revenge, even to the length of denying
the funeral song to the dead ; which, from the in-
jury thereby done to their ghosts, was in those
days considered as the greatest barbarity. Fierce
to the last, he comforts himself in his dying mo-
ments with thinking that his ghost shall often leave
its blast to rejoice over the graves of those he had
slain. Yet Ossian, ever prone to the pathetic, has
contrived to throw into his account of the death,
even of this man, some tender circumstances, by
the moving description of his daughter Dardulena,
the last of his race.

The character of Foldath tends much to exalt that

118 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

of Cathmor, the chief commander, which is distin-
guished by the most humane virtues. He abhors all
fraud and cruelty, is famous for his hospitality to
strangers ; open to every generous sentiment, and
to every soft and compassionate feeling. He is so
amiable as to divide the reader's attachment be-
tween him and the hero of the poem ; though our
author has artfully managed it so as to make Cath-
mor himself indirectly acknowledge Fingal's supe-
riority, and to appear somewhat apprehensive of
the event, after the death of Fillan, which he knew
would call forth Fingal in all his might. It is
very remarkable, that although Ossian has intro-
duced into his poems three complete heroes, Cu-
thullin, Cathmor, and Fmgal, he has, however,
sensibly distinguished each of their characters.
Cuthullin is particularly honourable ; Cathmor par-
ticularly amiable ; Fingal wise and great, retaining
an ascendant peculiar to himself in whatever light
he is viewed.

But the favourite figure inTemora, and the one
most highly finished, is Fillan. His character is of
that sort for which Ossian shows a particular fond-
ness; an eager, fervent, young warrior, fired with
all the impatient enthusiasm for military glory pe-
culiar to that time of life. He had sketched this
in the description of his own son Oscar ; but as he
has extended it more fully in Fillan; and as the •
character is so consonant to the epic strain, though,
so far as I remember, not placed in such a con-
spicuous light by any other epic poet, it may be
worth while to attend a little to Ossian's manage-
ment of it in this instance.

Fillan was the youngest of all the sons of Fingal ;
younger, it is plain, than his nephew Oscar, by
whose fame and great deeds in war we may natu-
rally suppose his ambition to have been highly sti-
mulated. Withal, as he is younger, he is described
as more rash and fiery. His first appearance is soon
after Oscar's death, when he was employed to
watch the motions of the foe by night. In a con-
versation with his brother Ossian, on that occasion,
we learn that it was not long since he began to lift

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. H9

the spear. ' Few are the marks of my sword in
battle ; but my soul is fire.' He is with some diffi-
culty restrained by Ossian from going to attack the
enemy ; and complains to him, that his father had
never allowed him any opportunity of signalising his
valour. • The king hath not remarked my sword;
I go forth with the crowd; I return without my
fame.' Soon after, when Fingal, according to cus-
tom, was to appoint one of his chiefs to command
the army, and each was standing forth, and putting
in his claim to this honour, Fillan is presented in
the following most picturesque and natural attitude :
■ On his spear stood the son of Clatho, in the wan-
dering of his locks. Thrice he raised his eyes to
Fingal ; his voice thrice failed him as he spol*e.
Fillan could not boast of battles; at once he
strode away. Bent over a distant stream he stood ;
the tear hung in his eye. He struck, at times, the
thistle's head with his inverted spear.' No less
natural and beautiful is the description of Fingal's
paternal emotion on this occasion. • Nor is he
unseen of Fingal. Sidelong he beheld his son. He
beheld him with bursting joy. He hid the big tear
with his locks, and turned amidst his crowded
soul.' The command, for that day, being given to
Gaul, Fillan rushes amidst the thickest of the foe,
saves Gaul's life, who is wounded by a random
arrow, and distinguishes himself so in battle, that
* the days of old return on Fingal's mind, as he
beholds the renown of his son. As the sun rejoices
from the cloud, over the tree his beams have raised,
whilst it shakes its lonely head on the heath, so joy-
ful is the king over Fillan.' Sedate, however, and
wise, he mixes the praise which he bestows on him
with some reprehension of his rashness. ' My son,
I saw thy deeds, and my soul was glad. Thou art
brave, son of Clatho, but headlong in the strife. So
did not Fingal advance, though he never feared a foe.
Let thy people be a ridge behind thee ; they are thy
strength in the field. Then shalt thou be long re-
nowned, and behold the tombs of thy fathers.'

On the next day, the greatest and the last of Fil-
lan's life, the charge is committed to him of leading

120 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

on the host to battle. Fingal's speech to his troops
on this occasion is full of noble sentiment ; and,
where he recommends his son to their care, extreme-
ly touching. ' A young beam is before you ; few
are his steps to war. They are few, but he is valiant ;
defend my dark-haired son. Bring him back with
joy; hereafter he may stand alone. His form is
like his fathers ; his soul is a flame of their fire.'
When the battle begins, the poet puts forth his
streugth to describe the exploits of the young hero ;
who, at last encountering and killing with his own
hand Foldath, the opposite general, attains the pin-
nacle of glory. In what follows, when the fate of
Fillan is drawing near, Ossian, if anywhere, excels
himself. Foldath being slain, and a general rout
begun, there was no resource left to the enemy but
in the great Cathmor himself, who in this extremity
descends from the hill, where, according to the cus-
tom of those princes, he surveyed the battle. Ob-
serve how this critical event is wrought up by the
poet. ' Wide-spreading over echoing Lubar, the
flight of Bolga is rolled along. Fillan hung forward
on their steps ; and strewed the heath with dead.
Fingal rejoiced over his son. — Blue-shielded Cath-
mor rose. — Son of Alpin, bring the harp ! Give
Fillan's praise to the wind ; raise high his praise in
my hall, while yet he shines in war. Leave, blue-
eyed Clatho ! leave thy hall ; behold that early beam
of thine! The host is withered in its course. No

farther look — it is dark light-trembling from the

harp, strike, virgins! strike the sound.' The sud-
den interruption and suspense of the narration on
Cathmor's rising from his hill, the abrupt bursting
into the praise of Fillan, and the passionate apo-
strophe to his mother Clatho, are admirable efforts
of poetical art, in order to interest us in Fillan's
danger ; and the whole is heightened by the imme-
diate following simile, one of the most magnificent
and sublime that is to be met with in any poet, and
which, if it had been found in Homer, would have
been the frequent subject of admiration to critics :
' Fillan is like a spirit of heaven, that descends i
from the skirt of his blast. The troubled ocean

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. \%y

feels his steps, as he strides from wave to wave.
His path kindles behind him ; islands shake their
heads on the heaving seas.'

But the poet's art is not yet exhausted. The fall
of this noble young warrior, or, in Ossian's style,
the extinction of this beam of heaven, could not be
rendered too interesting and affecting. Our atten-
tion is naturally drawn towards Fingal. He be-
holds from his hill the rising of Cathmor, and the
danger of his son. But what shall he do ? « Shall
Fingal rise to his aid, and take the sword of Luno ?
What then shall become of thy fame, son of white-
bosomed Clatho ? Turn not thine eyes from Fingal,
daughter of Inistore ! I shall not quench thy early
beam. No cloud of mine shall rise, my son, upon
thy soul of fire.' Struggling between concern for
the fame, and fear for the safety of his son, he with-
draws from the sight of the engagement ; and de-
spatches Ossian in haste to the field, with this affec-
tionate and delicate injunction : * Father of Oscar !
addressing him by a title which on this occasion has
the highest propriety: ' Father of Oscar! lift the
spear; defend the young in arms. But conceal thy
steps from Fillan's eyes. He must not know that I
doubt his steel.' Ossian arrived too late. But
unwilling to describe Fillan vanquished, the poet
suppresses all the circumstances of the combat with
Cathmor; and only shows us the dying hero. We
see him animated to the end with the same martial
and ardent spirit ; breathing his last in bitter regret
for being so early cut off from the field of glory.
' Ossian, lay me in that hollow rock. Raise no
stone above me, lest one should ask about my fame.
I am fallen in the first of my fields ; fallen without
renown. Let thy voice alone send joy to my flying
soul. Why should the bard know where dwells the
early-fallen Fillan ?' He who, after tracing the cir-
cumstances of this story, shall deny that our bard
is possessed of high sentiment and high heart, must
be strangely prejudiced indeed. Let him read the
1 story of Pallas in Virgil, which is of a similar kind ;
and after all the praise he may justly bestow on
j the elegant and finished description of that amiable

122 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

author, let him say which of the two poets unfolds
most of the human soul. I wave insisting on any
more of the particulars in Temora, as my aim is
rather to lead the reader into the genius and spirit
of Ossian's poetry than to dwell on all his beauties.

The judgment and art discovered in conducting
works of such length as Fingal and Temora, di-
stinguish them from the other poems in this col-
lection. The smaller pieces, however, contain par-
ticular beauties no less eminent. They are histo-
rical poems, generally of the elegiac kind ; and
plainly discover themselves to be the work of the
fame author. One consistent face of manners is
every where presented to us ; one spirit of poetry
reigns ; the masterly hand of Ossian appears through-
out ; the same rapid and animated style ; the same
strong colouring of imagination, and the same
glowing sensibility of heart. Besides the unity
which belongs to the compositions of one man,
there is moreover a certain unity of subject, which
very happily connects all these poems. They form
the poetical history of the age of Fingal. The
same race of heroes whom we had met with in the
greater poems, Cuthullin, Oscar, Connal, and Gaul,
return again upon the stage; and Fingal himself
is always the principal figure, presented on every
occasion, with equal magnificence, nay, rising upon
us to the last. The circumstances of Ossian's old
age and blindness, his surviving all his friends,
and his relating their great exploits to Malvina,
the spouse or mistress of his beloved son Oscar,
furnish the finest poetical situations that fancy
could devise for that tender pathetic which reigns
in Ossian's poetry.

On each of these poems there might be room for
separate observations, with regard to the conduct and
disposition of the incidents, as well as to the beauty
of the descriptions and sentiments. Carthon is a re-
gular and highly-finished piece. The main story is
very properly introduced by Classammor's relation of
the adventure of bis youth ; and this introduction is
finely heightened by Fingal's song of mourning over |
Moina ; in which Ossian, ever fond of doing honour i

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 123
to his father, has contrived to distinguish him for
being an eminent poet as well as warrior. Fingal's
song upon this occasion, when ' his thousand
bards leaned forwards from their seats to hear the
voice of the king,' is inferior to no passage in the
whole book ; and with great judgment put in his
mouth, as the seriousness, no less than the subli-
mity of the strain, is peculiarly suited to the hero's
character. In Darthula are assembled almost all
the tender images that can touch the heart of man ;
friendship, love, the affections of parents, sons,
and brothers, the distress of the aged, and the un-
availing bravery of the young. The beautiful ad-
dress to the moon, with which the poem opens, and
the transition from thence to the subject, most hap-
pily prepare the mind for that train of affecting
events that is to follow. The story is regular, dra-
matic, interesting to the last. He who can read it
without emotion may congratulate himself, if he
pleases, upon being completely armed against sym-
pathetic sorrow. As Fingal had no occasion of
appearing in the action of this poem, Ossian makes
a very artful transition from his narration, to what
was passing in the halls of Selma. The sound
heard there on the strings of his harp, the concern
which Fingal shows on hearing it, and the invoca-
tion of the ghosts of their fathers, to receive the
heroes falling in a distant land, are introduced with
great beauty of imagination to increase the solem-
nity, and to diversify the scenery of the poem.

Carric-thura is full of the most sublime dignity ;
and has this advantage, of being more cheerful in
the subject, and more happy in the catastrophe,
than most of the other poems : though tempered at
the same time with episodes in that strain of tender
melancholy which seems to have been the great de-
light of Ossian and the bards of his age. Lath-
mon is peculiarly distinguished by high gene-
rosity of sentiment. This is carried so far, par-
ticularly in the refusal of Gaul, on one side, to
take the advantage of a sleeping foe; and of Lath-
mon, on the other, to overpower by numbers the
two young warriors, as to recall into one's mind the

124 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

manners of chivalry; some resemblance to which
may perhaps be suggested by other incidents in
this collection of poems. Chivalry, however, took
rise in an age and country too remote from those of
Ossian, to admit the suspicion that the one could
have borrowed any thing from the other. So far
as chivalry had any real existence, the same mili-
tary enthusiasm which gave birth to it in the feu-
dal times, might, in the days of Ossian, that is, in
the infancy of arising state, through the operation
of the same cause, very naturally produce effects
of the same kind on the minds and manners of men.
So far as chivalry was an ideal system, existing
only in romance, it will not be thought surprising,
when we reflect on the account before given of the
Celtic bards, that this imaginary refinement of he-
roic manners should be found among them, as much,
at least, as among the Troubadours, or strolling
Provencal Bards, in the 10th or 11th century;
whose songs, it is said, first gave rise to those ro-
mantic ideas of heroism which for so long a time
enchanted Europe. Ossian's heroes have all the
gallantry and generosity of those fabulous knights,
without their extravagance; and his love-scenes
have native tenderness, without any mixture of
those forced and unnatural conceits which abound
in the old romances. The adventures related by
our poet which resemble the most those of romance,
concern women who follow their lovers to war dis-
guised in the armour of men ; and these are so ma-
naged as to produce, in the discovery, several of
the most interesting situations; one beautiful i
stance of which may be seen in Carric-thura, an-
other in Calthon and Colmal.

Oithona presents a situation of a different nature.
In the absence of her lover, Gaul, she had been car-
ried off and ravished by Dunrommath. Gaul dis-
covers the place where she is kept concealed, and
comes to revenge her. The meeting of the two
lovers, the sentiments and the behaviour of Oithona !
on that occasion, are described with such tender
and exquisite propriety, as does the greatest honour ]
both to the heart and to the delicacy of our author ;

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 125

and would have been admired in any poet of the
most refined age. The conduct of Croma must
strike every reader as remarkably judicious and
beautiful. We are to be prepared for the death of
Malvina, which is related in the succeeding poem.
She is therefore introduced in person ; • she has
heard a voice in her dream ; she feels the fluttering
of her soul;' and in a most moving lamentation
addressed to her beloved Oscar, she sings her own
death-song. Nothing could be calculated with
more art to soothe and comfort her than the story
which Ossian relates. In the young and brave Fo-
vargormo, another Oscar is introduced : his praises
are sung; and the happiness is set before her of
those who die in their youth, • when their renown
is around them ; before the feeble behold them in
the hall, aud smile at their trembling hands.'

But nowhere does Ossian's genius appear to
greater advantage than in Berrathon, which is
reckoned the conclusion of his songs, ' The last
sound of the voice of Cona.'

Qualis olor noto positurus littore vitam,
Ingemit, et mcestis mulcens concentibus auras
Prassago quaeritur venientia funera cantu.
The whole train of ideas is admirably suited to
the subject. Every thing is full of that invisible
world, into which the aged bard believes himself
now ready to enter. The airy hall of Fingal pre-
sents itself to his view ; ■ he sees the cloud that
shall receive his ghost ; he beholds the mist that
shall form his robe when he appears on his hill;'
and all the natural objects around him seem to
carry the presages of death. ■ The thistle shakes
its beard to the wind. The flower hangs its heavy
head ; it seems to say, I am covered with the drops
of heaven ; the time of my departure is near, and
the blast that shall scatter my leaves.' Malvina's
death is hinted to him in the most delicate manner
by the son of Alpin. His lamentation over her,
her apotheosis, or ascent to the habitation of heroes,
and the introduction to the story which follows from
the mention which Ossian supposes the father of
Malvina to make of him in the hall of Fingal, are

126 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

all in the highest spirit of poetry. ■ And dost
thou remember Ossian, O Toscar, son of Conloch?
The battles of our youth were many; our swords
went together to the field.' Nothing eoukl be more
proper than to end his songs with recording an ex-
ploit of the father of that Malvina, of whom his
heart was now so full ; and who, from first to last,
had been such a favourite object throughout all
his poems.

The scene of most of Ossian's poems is laid in
Scotland, or in the coast of Ireland, opposite to the
territories of Fingal. When the scene is in Ire-
land, we perceive no change of manners from these
of Ossian's native country. For as Ireland was
undoubtedly peopled with Celtic tribes, the lan-
guage, customs, and religion of both nations were
the same. They had been separated from one an-
other, by migration, only a few generations, as it
should seem, before our poefs age; and they still
maintained a close and frequent intercourse. But
when the poet relates the expeditions of any of his
heroes to the Scandinavian coast, or to the islands
of Orkney, which were then part of the Scandina-
vian territory, as he does in Carric-thura, Sul-malla
of Lumon, and Cath-loda, the case is quite altered.
Those countries were inhabited by nations of the
Teutonic descent, who, in their manners and reli-
gious rites, differed widely from the Celta?; and it
is curious and remarkable, to find this difference
clearly pointed out in the poems of Ossian. His
descriptions bear the native marks of one who was
present in the expeditions which he relates, and
who describes what he had seen with his own eyes.
No sooner are we carried to Lochlin, or the islands
of Inistore, than we perceive we are in a foreign
region. New objects begin to appear. We meet
every where with the stones and circles of Loda, that
is, Odin, the great Scandinavian deity. We meet
with the divinations and enchantments for which it
is well known those northern nations were early fa-
mous. * There, mixed with the murmur of waters,
rose the voice of aged men, who called the forms of
night to aid them in their war ;' whilst the Caledo-
nian chiefs, who assisted them, are described as

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. l J

standing at a distance, heedless of their rites. That
ferocity of manners which distinguished those na-
tions also becomes conspicuous. In the combats
of their chiefs there is a peculiar savageness; even
their women are bloody and fierce. The spirit; and
the very ideas of Regner Lodbrog, that northern
scalder whom I formerly quoted, occur to us again.
■ The hawks,' Ossian makes one of the Scandina-
vian chiefs say, ' rush from all their winds ; they
are wont to trace my course. We rejoiced three
days above the dead, and called the hawks of hea-
ven. They came from all their winds, to feast on
the foes of Annir.'

Dismissing now the separate consideration of any
of our author's works, I proceed to make some ob-
servations on his manner of writing, under the gene-
ral heads of Description, Imagery, and Sentiment.

A poet of original genius is always distinguished
by his talent for description. A second-rate writer
discerns nothing new or peculiar in the objects he
means to describe. His conceptions of it are vague
and loose; his expressions feeble; and of course
the object is presented to us indistiuctly, and thus
through a cloud. But a true poet makes us imagine
that we see it before our eyes; he catches the di-
stinguishing features ; he gives it the colours of life
and reality; he places it in such a light that a
painter could copy after him. This happy talent is
chiefly owing to a lively imagination, which first
receives a strong impression of the object; and
then, by a proper selection of capital picturesque
circumstances employed in describing it, transmits
that impression in its full force to the imaginations
of others. That Ossian possesses this descriptive
power in a high degree, we have a clear proof, from
the effect which his descriptions produce upon the
imaginations of those who read him with any de-
gree of attention or taste. Few poets are more in-
teresting. We contract an intimate acquaintance
with his principal heroes. The characters, the man-
ners, the face of the country, become familiar; we
even think we could draw the figure of his ghost.
In a word, whilst reading him we are transported

128 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

as into a new region, and dwell among his objects

as if they were all real.

It were easy to point out several instances of ex-
quisite painting in the works of our author. Such,
for instance, as the scenery with which Temora
opens, and the attitude in which Cairbar is there
presented to us ; the description of the young prince
Cormae, in the same book; and the ruins of Bal-
clutha, in Cartho. ' I have seen the walls of Bal-
clutha, but they were desolate. The fire had re-
sounded in the halls : and the voice of the people
is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was re-
moved from its place by the fall of the walls. The
thistle shook there its lonely head : the moss whistled
to the wind. The fox looked out from the win-
dows ; the rank grass of the wall waved round his
head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina ; silence
is in the house of her fathers.' Nothing also can
be more natural and lively than the manner in
-.vhieh Carthon afterwards describes how the con-
flagration of his city affected him when a child:
* Have I not seen the fallen Balclutha? And shall
I feast with Comhal's son ? Comhal ! who threw his
fire in the midst of my father's hall ! I was young,
and knew not the cause why the virgins wept. The
columns of smoke pleased mine eye, when they arose
above my walls : I often looked back with gladness,
when my friends fled above the hill. But when the
years of my youth came on, I beheld the moss of
my fallen walls. My sigh arose with the morning;
and iny tears descended with night. Shall I not
fight, I said to my soul, against the children of my
foes ? And I will fight, O Bard ! I feel the strength
of my soul.' In the same poem, the assembling of
the chiefs round Fingal, who had been warned of
some impending danger by the appearance of a pro-
digy, is described with so many picturesque circum-
stances, that one imagines himself present in the as-
sembly. ' The king alone beheld the terrible sight,,
and he foresaw the death of his people. He came
in silence to his hall, and took his father's spear ;
the mail rattled on his breast. The heroes rose
around. They looked in silence on each other,

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 129
marking the eyes of Fingal. They saw the battle
in his face. A thousand shields are placed at once
on their arms ; and they drew a thousand swords.
The hall of Selma brightened around. The clang of
arms ascends. The gray dogs howl in their place.
No word is among the mighty chiefs. Each marked
the eyes of the king ; and half-assumed his spear.'

It has been objected to Ossian, that his descrip-
tions of military actions are imperfect, and much
less diversified by circumstances than those of Ho-
mer. This is in some measure true. The amazing
fertility of Homer's invention is nowhere so much
displayed as in the incidents of his battles, and in
the little history-pieces he gives of the persons slain.
Nor, indeed, with regard to the talent of description,
can too much be said in praise of Homer. Every
thing is alive in his writings. The colours with
which he paints are those of nature. But OssianV
genius was of a different kind from Homer's. It
led him to hurry towards grand objects, rather than
to amuse himself with particulars of less importance.
He could dwell on the death of a favourite hero ;
but that of a private man seldom stopped his rapid
course. Homer's genius was more comprehensive
than Ossian's. It included a wider circle of objects ;
and could work up an incident into description.
Ossian's was more limited; but the region within
which it chiefly exerted itself was the highest of all,
the region of the pathetic and sublime.

We must not imagine, however, that Ossian's bat-
tles consist only of general indistinct description.
Such beautiful incidents are sometimes introduced,
and the circumstances of the persons slain so much
diversified, as show that he could have embellished
his military scenes with an abundant variety of par-
ticulars, if his genius had led him to dwell upon
them. ' One man is stretched in the dust of his
native land ; he fell, where often he had spread the
feast, and often raised the voice of the harp.' The
maid of Inistore is introduced, in a moving apo-
strophe, as weeping for another ; and a third, ' as
rolled in the dust he lifted his faint eyes to the
king,* is remembered and mourned by Fingal as

130 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

the friend of Agandecca. The blood pouring from
the wound of one who was slain by night, is heard
' hissing on the half-extinguished oak,' which had
been kindled for giving light. Another, climbing a
tree to escape from his foe, is pierced by his spear
from behind ; • shrieking, panting he fell ; whilst
moss and withered branches pursue his fall, and
strew the blue arms of Gaul.' Never was a finer
picture drawn of the ardour of two youthrul war-
riors than the following : ' I saw Gaul in his ar-
mour, and my soul was mixed with his : for the fire
of the battle was in his eyes ; he looked to the foe
with joy. We spoke the words of friendship in
secret ; and the lightning of our swords poured to-
gether. We drew them behind the wood, and tried
the strength of our arms on the empty air.'

Ossian is always concise in his descriptions,
which adds much to their beauty and force. For
it is a great mistake to imagine, that a crowd of
particulars, or a very full and extended style, is of
advantage to description. On the contrary, such a
diffuse" manner for the most part weakens it. Any
one redundant circumstance is a nuisance. It en-
cumbers and loads the fancy, and renders the main
image indistinct. * Obstat,' as Quintilian says with
regard to style, ' quicquid non adjuvat.' To be con-
cise in description, is one thing : and to be general,
is another. No description that rests in generals
can possibly be good; it can convey no lively
idea; for it is of particulars only that we have
a distinct conception. But, at the same time, no
strong imagination dwells long upon any one par-
ticular, or heaps together a mass of trivial ones.
By the happy choice of some one, or of a few that
are the most striking, it presents the image more
complete, shows us more at one glance than a feeble
imagination is able to do, by turning its object
round and round into a variety of lights. Tacitus
is of all prose writers the most concise. He has
even a degree of abruptness resembling our author :
yet no writer is more eminent for lively description.
When Fingal, after having conquered the haughty
Swaran, proposes to dismiss him with honour:

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. j3i

' Raise to-morrow thy white sails to the wind, thou
brother of Agandecca !' he conveys, by thus ad-
dressing his enemy, a stronger impression of the
emotions then passing within his mind, than if
whole paragraphs had been spent in describing the
conflict between resentment against Swaran and the
tender remembrance of his ancient love. No am-
plification is needed to give us the most full idea of
a hardy veteran, after the few following words:
« His shield is marked with the strokes of battle ;
his red eye despises danger.' When Oscar, left
alone, was surrounded by foes, 'he stood,' it is
said, ' growing in his place, like the flood of the
narrow vale ;' a happy representation of one, who,
by daring intrepidity in the midst of danger, seems
to increase in his appearance, and becomes more
formidable every moment, like the sudden rising of
the torrent hemmed in by-the valley. And a whole
crowd of ideas, concerning the circumstances of
domestic sorrow, occasioned by a young warrior's
first going forth to battle, is poured upon the mind
by these words : ' Calmar leaned on his father's
spear; that spear which he brought from Lara's
hall, when the soul of his mother was sad.'

The conciseness of Ossian's descriptions is the
more proper on account of his subjects. Descrip-
tions of gay and smiling scenes may, without any
disadvantage, be amplified, and prolonged. Force
is not the predominant quality expected in these.
The description may be weakened by being diffuse,
yet, notwithstanding, may be beautiful still : where-
as, with respect to grand, solemn, and pathetic sub-
jects, which are Ossian's chief field, the case is very
different. In these, energy is above all things re-
quired. The imagination must be seized at once,
or not at all; and is far more deeply impressed by
one strong and ardent image, than by the anxious
minuteness of laboured illustration.

But Ossian's genius, though chiefly turned to-
wards the sublime and pathetic, was not confined
to it. In subjects also of grace and delicacy, he
discovers the hand of a master. Take for an ex-
ample the following elegant description of Agan-

132 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

decca, wherein the tenderness of Tibullus seems
united with the majesty of Virgil. « The daughter
of the snow overheard, and left the hall of her se-
cret sigh. She came in all her beauty; like the
moon from the cloud of the east. Loveliness was
around her as light. Her step was like the music
of songs. She saw the youth and loved him. He
was the stolen sigh of her soul. Her blue eyes
rolled on him in secret ; and she blessed the chief of
Morven.' Several other instances might be pro-
duced of the feelings of love and friendship paint-
ed by our author with a most natural and happy
delicacy.

The simplicity of Ossian's manner adds great
beauty to his descriptions, and indeed to his whole
poetry. We meet with no affected ornaments; no
forced refinement; no marks either in style or
thought of a studied endeavour to shine or sparkle.
Ossian appears every where to be prompted by his
feelings; and to speak from the abundance of his
heart. I remember no more than one instance of
what can be called a quaint thought in this whole
collection of his works. It is in the first book of
Fingal, where, from the tombs of two lovers, two
lonely yews are mentioned to have sprung, ' whose
branches wished to meet on high.' This sympathy
of the trees with the lovers, may be reckoned to
border on an Italian conceit; and it is somewhat
curious to find this single instance of that sort of
wit in our Celtic poetry.

The 'joy of grief is one of Ossian's remarkable
expressions, several times repeated. If any one
shall think that it needs to be justified by a pre-
cedent, he may find it twice used by Homer : in the
Iliad, when Achilles is visited by the ghost of Pa-
troclus; and in the Odyssey, when Ulysses meets
his mother in the shades. On both these occasions',
the heroes, melted with tenderness, lament their
not having it in their power to throw their arms
round the ghost, ' that we might,' say they, ' in
mutual embrace, enjoy the delight of grief.'

KfVtfoTo TiTccfTtw^.icQa, yooio.

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 133

But, in truth, the expression stands in need of no
defence from authority ; for it is a natural and just
expression ; and conveys a clear idea of that grati-
fication which a virtuous heart often feels in the
indulgence of a tender melancholy. Ossian makes
a very proper distinction between this gratification
and the destructive effect of overpowering grief.
• There is a joy in grief when peace dwells in the
breasts of the sad. But sorrow wastes the mourn-
ful, O daughter of Toscar, and their days are few.'
To • give the joy of grief,' generally signifies to
raise the strain of soft and grave music; and finely
characterises the taste of Ossian's age and country.
In those days, when the songs of bards were the
great delight of heroes, the tragic muse was held
in chief honour : gallant actions, and virtuous suf-
ferings, were the chosen theme; preferably to that
light and trifling strain of poetry and music, which
promotes light and trifling manners, and serves to
emasculate the mind. 'Strike the harp in my hall,'
said the great Fingal, in the midst of youth and
victory ; « strike the harp in my hall, and let Fingal
hear the song. Pleasant is the joy of grief ! It is
like the shower of spring, when it softens the branch
of the oak ; and the young leaf lifts its green head.
Sing on, O bards ! To-morrow we lift the sail.'

Personal epithets have been much used by all
the poets of the most ancient ages: and when well
chosen, not general and unmeaning, they contri-
bute not a little to render the style descriptive and
animated. Besides epithets founded on bodily
distinctions, akin to many of Homer's, we find in
Ossian several which are remarkably beautiful and
poetical. Such as, Oscar of the future fights, Fin-
gal of the mildest look, Carril of other times, the
mildly-blushing Evirallin ; Bragela.the lonely sun-
beam of Dunscaich ; a Culdee, the son of the secret
cell.

But of all the ornaments employed in descriptive
poetry, comparisons or similes are the most splen-
did. These chiefly form what is called the imagery
of a poem ; and as they abound so much in the
works of Ossian, and are commonly among the fa-

134 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

vourite passages of all poets, it may be expected
that I should be somewhat particular in my remarks
upon them.

A poetical simile always supposes two objects
brought together, between which there is some near
relation or connexion in the fancy. What that re-
lation ought to be, cannot be precisely defined. For
various, almost numberless, are the analogies formed
among objects, by a sprightly imagination. The re-
lation of actual similitude, or likeness of appear-
ance, is far from being the only foundation of poeti-
cal comparison. Sometimes a resemblance in the
effect produced by two objects, is made the con-
necting principle : sometimes a resemblance in one
distinguishing property or circumstance. Very often
two objects are brought together in a simile, though
they resemble one another, strictly speaking, in no-
thing, only because they raise in the mind a train
of similar, and what may be called concordant,
ideas; so that the remembrance of the one, when
recalled, serves to quicken and heighten the impres-
sion made by the other. Thus, to give an instance
from our poet, the pleasure with which an old man
looks back on the exploits of his youth, has cer-
tainly no direct resemblance to the beauty of a fine
evening ; farther than that both agree in producing
a certain calm, placid joy. Yet Ossian has founded
upon this, one of the most beautiful comparisons
that is to be met with in any poet. * Wilt thou not
listen, son of the rock, to the song of Ossian ? My
soul is full of other times; the joy of my youth re-
turns. Thus the sun appears in the west, after the
steps of his brightness have moved behind a storm.
The green hills lift their dewy heads. The blue
streams rejoice in the vale. The aged hero comes
forth on his staff; and his gray hair glitters in the
beam.' Never was there a finer group of objects.
It raises a strong conception of the old man's joy
and elation of heart, by displaying a scene which
produces in every spectator a corresponding train
of pleasing emotions; the declining sun looking
forth in his brightness after a storm ; the cheerful
face of all nature ; and the still life finely animated

OX THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 135

by the circumstance of the aged hero, with his staff
and his gray locks ; a circumstance both extremely
picturesque in itself, and peculiarly suited to the
main object of the comparison. Such analogies and
associations of ideas as these, are highly pleasing to
the fancy. They give opportunity for introducing
many a fine poetical picture. They diversify the
scene ; they aggrandise the subject ; they keep the
imagination awake and sprightly. For as the judg-
ment is principally exercised in distinguishing ob-
jects, and remarking the differences among those
which seem alike; so the highest amusement of the
imagination is to trace likenesses and agreements
among those which seem different.

The principal rules which respect poetical com-
parisons are, that they be introduced on proper oc-
casions, when the mind is disposed to relish them ;
and not in the midst of some severe and agitating
passion, which cannot admit this play of fancy ; that
they be founded on a resemblance neither too near
and obvious, so as to give little amusement to the
imagination in tracing it, nor too faint and remote,
so as to be apprehended with difficulty ; that they
serve either to illustrate the principal object, and to
render the conception of it more clear and distinct ;
or, at least, to heighten and embellish it, by a suit-
able association of images.

Every country has a scenery peculiar to itself;
and the imagery of a good poet will exhibit it. For
as he copies after nature, his allusions will of course
be taken from those objects which he sees around
him, and which have often struck his fancy. For
this reason, in order to judge of the propriety of
poetical imagery7, we ought to be, in some measure,
acquainted with the natural history of the country
where the scene of the poem is laid. The introduc-
tion of foreign images betrays a poet, copying not
from nature, but from other writers. Hence so
many lions, and tigers, and eagles, and serpents,
which we meet with in thesimiles of modern poets ;
as if these animals had acquired some right to a
place in poetical comparisons for ever, because em-
ployed by ancient authors. They employed them

136 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

with propriety, as objects generally known in their
country ; but they are absurdly used for illustration
by us, who know them only at second-hand, or by
description. To most readers of modem poetry, it
were more to the purpose to describe lions or tigers
by similes taken from men, than to compare men to
lions. Ossian is very correct in this particular.
His imagery is, without exception, copied from that
face of nature which he saw before his eyes; and by
consequence may be expected to be lively. We meet
with no Grecian or Italian scenery; but with the
mists, and clouds, and storms, of a northern moun-
tainous region.

No poet abounds more in similes than Ossian.
There are in this collection as many, at least, as in
the whole Iliad and Odyssey of Homer. I am in-
deed inclined to think, that the works of both poets
are too much crowded with them. Similes are
sparkling ornaments ; and, like all things that
sparkle, are apt to dazzle and tire us by their lustre.
But if Ossian's similes be too frequent, they have
this advantage, of being commonly shorter than
Homer's; they interrupt his narration less; he just
glances aside to some resembling object, and in-
stantly returns to his former track. Homer's similes
include a wider range of objects: but, in return,
Ossian's are, without exception, taken from objects
of dignity, which cannot be said for all those which
Homer employs. The sun, the moon, and the stars,
clouds and meteors, lightning and thunder, seas and
whales, rivers, torrents,\vinds, ice, rain, snow, dews,
mist, fire and smoke, trees and forests, heath and
grass and flowers, rocks and mountains, music and
songs, light and darkness, spirits and ghosts; these
form the circle within which Ossian's comparisons
generally run. Some, not many, are taken from
birds and beasts ; as eagles, sea-fowl, the horse, the
deer, and the mountain bee ; and a very few from
such operations of art as were then known. Homer
has diversified his imagery by many more allusions
to the animal world ; to lions, bulls, goats, herds of
cattle, serpents, insects ; and to the various occu-
pations of rural and pastoral life.' Ossian's defect,

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAX. 137

in this article, is plainly owing to the desert uncul-
tivated state of his country, which suggested to him
few images beyond natural inanimate objects, in
their rudest form. The birds and animals of the
country were probably not numerous; and his ac-
quaintance with them was slender, as they were
little subjected to the uses of man.

The great objection made to Ossian's imagery, is
its uniformity, and the too frequent repetition of
the same comparison. In a work so thick-sown with
similes, one could not but expect to find images of
the same kind sometimes suggested to the poet by
resembling objects ; especially to a poet like Ossian,
who wrote from the immediate impulse of poetical
enthusiasm, and without much preparation of study
or labour. Fertile as Homer's imagination is ac-
knowledged to be, who does not know how often
his lions, and bulls, and flocks of sheep, recur with
little or no variation ? nay, sometimes in the very-
same words ? The objection made to Ossian is, how-
ever, founded, in a great measure, upon a mistake.
It has been supposed by inattentive readers, that
wherever the moon, the cloud, or the thunder, re-
turns in a simile, it is the same simile, and the same
moon, or cloud, or thunder, which they had met
with a few pages before. Whereas very often the
similes are widely different. The object, whence
they are taken, is indeed in substance the same ; but
the image is new; for the appearance of the object
is changed; it is presented to the fancy in another
attitude ; and clothed with new circumstances, to
make it suit the different illustration for which it
is employed. In this lies Ossian's great art; in so
happily varying the form of the few natural appear-
ances with which he was acquainted, as to make
them correspond to a great many different objects.
Let us take for one instance the moon, which is
very frequently introduced in his comparisons ; as
in northern climates, where the nights are long, the
moon is a greater object of attention than in the
climate of Homer; and let us view how much our
poet has diversified its appearance. The shield of
a warrior is like ' the darkened moon when it moves

138 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

a dun circle through the heavens.' The face of a
ghost, wan and pale, is like « the beam of the set-
ting moon.' And a different appearance of a ghost,
thin and indistinct, is like 'the new moon seen
through the gathered mist, when the sky pours down
its flaky snow, and the world is silent and dark ;'
or, in a different form still, is like « the Watery beam
of the moon, when it rushes from between two
clouds, and the midnight shower is on the field.'
A very opposite use is made of the moon in the
description of Agandecca : ' She came in all her
beauty, like the moon from the cloud of the east.'
Hope, succeeded by disappointment, is 'joy rising
on her face, and sorrow returning again, like a thin
cloud on the moon.' But when S war an, after his
defeat, is cheered by Fingal's generosity, 'his face
brightened like the full moon of heaven, when the
clouds vanish away, and leave her calm and broad
in the midst of the sky.' Venvela is « bright as the
moon when it trembles o'er the western wave ;' but
the soul of the guilty Uthal is ' dark as the troubled
face of the moon, when it foretels the storm.' And
by a very fanciful and uncommon allusion, it is
said of Cormac, who was to die in his early years,
• Nor long shalt thou lift the spear, mildly shining
beam of youth ! Death stands dim behind thee,
like the darkened half of the moon behind its grow-
ing light.'

Another instance of the same nature may be
taken from mist, which, as being a very familiar
appearance in the country of Ossian, he applies to
a variety of purposes, and pursues through a great
many forms. Sometimes, which one would hardly
expect, he employs it to heighten the appearance of
a beautiful object. The hair of Morna is ' like the
mist of Cromla, when it curls on the rock, and shines
to the beam of the west.' — ' The song comes with
its music to melt and please the car. It is like soft
mist, that rising from a lake pours on the silent vale.
The green flowers are filled with dew. The sun
returns in its strength, and the mist is gone.' But,
for the most part, mist is employed as a similitude
of some disagreeable or terrible object. ' The soul

ON THE POEMS OF OSS IAN. 139

of Nathos was sad, like the sun in the day of mist,
when his face is watery and dim.' ' The darkness
of oJd age comes like the mist of the desert.' The
face of a ghost is * pale as the mist of Cromla.'
' The gloom of battle is rolled along as mist that
is poured on the valley, when storms invade the
silent sunshine of heaven.' Fame, suddenly de-
parting, is likened to ' mist that flies away before
the rustling wind of the vale.' A ghost, slowly
vanishing, to 'mist that melts by degrees on the
sunny hill.' Cairbar, after his treacherous assas-
sination of Oscar, is compared to a pestilential fog.
' I love a foe like Cathmor,' says Fingal ; « his soul
is great; his arm is strong ; his battles are full of
fame. But the little soul is like a vapour that
hovers round the marshy lake. It never rises on
the green hill, lest the winds meet it there. Its
dwelling is in the cave ; and it sends forth the dart
of death.' This is a simile highly finished. But
there is another which is still more striking, found-
ed also on mist, in the fourth book of Temora.
Two factious chiefs are contending; Cathmor, the
king, interposes, rebukes, and silences them. The
poet intends to give us the highest idea of Cath-
mor's superiority; and most effectually accom-
plishes his intention by the following happy image.
• They sunk from the king on either side, like two
columns of morning mist, when the sun rises be-
tween them, on his glittering rocks. Dark is their
rolling on either side; each towards its reedy
pool.' These instances may sufficiently show with
what richness of imagination Ossian's comparisons
abound, and, at the same time, with what pro-
priety of judgment they are employed. If his field
was narrow, it must be admitted to have been as
well cultivated as its extent would allow.

As it is usual to judge of poets from a compari-
son of their similes more than of other passages,
it will perhaps be agreeable to the reader, to see
how Homer and Ossian have conducted some
images of the same kind. This might be shown
in many instances. For as the great objects of

140 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

nature are common to the poets of all nations, and
make the general storehouse of all imagery, the
groundwork of their comparisons must of course
be frequently the same. I shall select only a few of
the most considerable from both poets. Mr. Pope's
translation of Homer can be of no use to us here.
The parallel is altogether unfair between prose and
the imposing harmony of flowing numbers. It is
only by viewing Homer in the simplicity of a prose
translation, that we can form any comparison be-
tween the two bards.

The shock of two encountering armies, the noise
and the tumult of battle, afford one of the most
grand and awful subjects of description ; on which
all epic poets have exerted their strength. Let us
first hear Homer. The following description is a
favourite one, for we find it twice repeated in the
same words*. ' When now the conflicting hosts
joined in the field of battle, then were mutually
opposed shields, and swords, and the strength of
armed men. The bossy bucklers were dashed
against each other. The universal tumult rose.
There were mingled the triumphant shouts and
the dying groans of the victors and the vanquished.
The earth streamed with blood. As when winter
torrents, rushing from the mountains, pour into a
narrow valley their violent waters. They issue
from a thousand springs, and mix in the hollowed
channel. The distant shepherd hears on the
mountain their roar from afar. Such was the
terror and the shout of the engaging armies.' In
another passage, the poet, much in the manner of
Ossian, heaps simile on simile, to express the
vastncss of the idea with which his imagination
seems to labour. « With a mighty shout the hosts
engage. Not so loud roars the wave of ocean,
when driven against the shore, by the whole force
of the boisterous north ; not so loud in the woods
of the mountain, the noise of the flame, when rising
in its fury to consume the forest; not so loud the

■ Iliad iv. 46; and Iliad viii. 60.

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 141

wind among the lofty oaks, when the wrath of the
storm rages ; as was the clamour of the Greeks
and Trojans, when, roaring terribly, they rushed
against each other *.'

To these descriptions and similes, we may op-
pose the following from Ossian, and leave the
reader to judge between them. He will find images
of the same kind employed, commonly less ex-
tended, but thrown forth with a glowing rapidity
which characterises our poet. • As autumn's dark
storms pour from two echoing hills, towards each
other approached the heroes. As two dark streams
from high rocks meet and mix, and roar on the
plain ; loud, rough, and dark in battle, meet
Lochlin and Inisfail. Chief mixed his strokes
with chief, and man with man. Steel clanging,
sounded on steel. Helmets are cleft on high ;
blood bursts and smokes around. — As the troubled
noise of the ocean, when roll the waves on high;
as the last peal of the thunder of heaven, such is
the noise of battle.' — • As roll a thousand waves
to the rock, so Swaran's host came on ; as meets a
rock a thousand waves, so Inisfail met Swaran.
Death raises all his voices around, and mixes with
the sound of shields. — The field echoes from wing
to wing, as a hundred hammers that rise by turns
on the red son of the furnace.' — ' As a hundred
winds on Morven; as the streams of a hundred
hills ; as clouds fly successive over heaven ; or as
the dark ocean assaults the shore of the desert ; so
roaring, so vast, so terrible, the armies mixed on
Lena's echoing heath.' In several of these images
there is a remarkable similarity to Homer's ; but
what follows is superior to any comparison that
Homer uses on this subject. « The groan of the
people spread over the hills ; it was like the thun-
der of night, when the cloud bursts on Cona; and
a thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow
wind.' Never was an image of more awful sub-
limity employed to heighten the terror of battle.

U2 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

Both poets compare the appearance of an army
approaching, to the gathering of dark clouds. ' As
when a shepherd,' says Homer, ' beholds from the
rock a cloud borne along the sea by the western
wind ; black as pitch it appears from afar sailing
over the ocean, and carrying the dreadful storm.
He shrinks at the sight, and drives his flock into
the cave: such, under the Ajaces, moved on, the
dark, the thickened phalanx to the war*.' — ' They
came,' says Ossian, ' over the desert like stormy
clouds, when the winds roll them over the heath ;
their edges are tinged with lightning; and the
echoing groves foresee the storm.' The edges of
the cloud tinged with lightning is a sublime idea;
but the shepherd and his flock render Homer's
simile more picturesque. This is frequently the
difference between the two poets. Ossian gives no
more than the main image, strong and full : Homer
adds circumstances and appendages, which amuse
the fancy by enlivening the scenery.

Homer compares the regular appearance of an
army, to • clouds that are settled on the mountain-
top in the day of calmness, when the strength of the
north wind sleeps t-' Ossian, with full as much pro-
priety, compares the appearance of a disordered
army, to 'the mountain cloud, when the blasthath
eDtered its womb, and scatters the curling gloom on
every side.' Ossian's clouds assume a great many
forms; and, as we might expect from his climate, are
a fertile source of imagery to him. « The warriors
followed their chiefs, like the gathering of the rainy
clouds, behind the red meteors of heaven.' An army
retreating without coming to action, is likened to
« clouds that, having long threatened rain, retire
slowly behind the hills.' The picture of Oithona,
after she had determined to die, is lively and deli-
cate. ' Her soul was resolved, and the tear was dried
from her wildly-looking eye. A troubled joy rose on
her mind, like the red path of the lightning on a
stormy cloud.' The image also of the gloomy Cair-

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 143
bar, meditating, in silence, the assassination of Os-
car, until the moment came when his designs were
ripe for execution, is extremely noble, and complete
in all its parts. ' Cairbar heard their words in si-
lence, like the cloud of a shower; it stands dark on
Cromla, till the lightning bursts its side. The val-
ley gleams with red light; the spirits of the storm
rejoice. So stood the silent king of Temora ; at
length his words are heard.'

Homer's comparison of Achilles to the dog-star
is very sublime. ' Priam beheld him rushing along
the plain, shining in his armour, like the star of au-
tumn : bright are its beams, distinguished amidst
the multitude of stars in the dark hour of night. It
rises in its splendour; but its splendour is fatal;
betokening to miserable men the destroying heat *.'
The first appearance of Fingal is, in like manner,
compared by Ossian to a star or meteor. ' Fingal,
tall in his ship, stretched his bright lance before him.
Terrible was the gleam of his steel ; it was like the
green meteor of death, sitting in the heath of Mal-
mor, when the traveller is alone, and the broad moon
is darkened in heaven.' The hero's appearance in
Homer is more magnificent; in Ossian, more ter-
rible.

A tree cut down, or overthrown by a storm, is a
similitude frequent among poets for describing the
fall of a warrior in battle. Homer employs it often.
But the most beautiful, by far, of his comparisons,
founded on this object, indeed one of the most beau-
tiful in the whole Iliad, is that on the death of Eu-
phorbus. * As the young and verdant olive, which
a man hath reared with care in a lonely field, where
the springs of water bubble around it; it is fair and
flourishing; it is fanned by the breath of all the
winds, and loaded with white blossoms; when the
sudden blast of a whirlwind descending, roots it
out from its bed, and stretcher it on the dustt.' To
this, elegant as it is, we may oppose the following
simile of Ossian's, relating to the death of the three
sons of Usnoth. < They fell, like three young oaks

• Iliad xxii. C6. t Iliad xvii. 53.

144 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

which stood alone on the hill. The traveller saw
the lovely trees, and wondered how they grew so
lonely. The blast of the desert eame by night, and
laid their green heads low. Next day he returned ;
but they were withered, and the heath was bare.'
Malvina's allusion to the same object, in her la-
mentation over Oscar, is so exquisitely tender, that
I cannot forbear giving it a place also. ' I was a
lovely tree in thy presence, Oscar ! with all my
branches round me. But thy death came, like a
blast from the desert, and laid my green head low.
The spring returned with its showers ; but no leaf
of mine arose.' Several of Ossian's similes, taken
from trees, are remarkably beautiful and diversified
with well-chosen circumstances; such as that upon
the death of Ryno and Orla : « They have fallen
like the oak of the desert ; when it lies across a
stream, and withers in the wind of the mountains.'
Or that which Ossian applies to himself: ' I, like
an ancient oak in Morven, moulder alone in my
place ; the blast hath lopped my branches away ;
and I tremble at the winds of the north.'

As Homer exalts his heroes by comparing them to
gods, Ossian makes the same use of comparisons
taken from spirits and ghosts. ' Swaran roared in
battle, like the shrill spirit of a storm that sits dim
on the clouds of Gormal, and enjoys the death of
the mariner.' His people gathered round Erragon,
« like storms around the ghost of night, when he
calls them from the top of Morven, and prepares to
pour them on the land of the stranger.' — • They
fell before my son, like groves on the desert, when
an angry ghost rushes through night, and takes their
green heads in his hand.' In such images Ossian
appears in his strength; for very seldom have super-
natural beings been painted with so much sublimity,
and such force of imagination, as by this poet. Even
Horner, great as he is, must yield to him in similes
formed upon these. Take, for instance, the follow-
ing, which is the most remarkable of this kind in
the Iliad. * Meriones followed Idomeneus to bat-
tle, like Mars, the destroyer of men, when he rushes
to war. Terror, his beloved son, strong and fierce,

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 145

attends him ; who fills with dismay the most va-
liant hero. They come from Thrace, armed against
the Ephyrians and Phlegyans ; nor do they regard
the prayers of either ; but dispose of success at their
will *.' The idea here is undoubtedly noble : but
observe what a figure Ossian sets before the asto-
nished imagination, and with what sublimely-terrible
circumstances he has heightened it. ' He rushed
in the sound of his arms, like the dreadful spirit of
Loda, when he comes in the roar of a thousand
storms, and scatters battles from his eyes. He sits
on a cloud over Lochlin's seas. His mighty hand
is on his sword. The wind lifts his flaming locks.
So terrible was Cuthullin in the day of his fame.'

Homer's comparisons relate chiefly to martial sub-
jects, to the appearances and motions of armies, the
engagement and death of heroes, 2nd the various
incidents of war. In Ossian we find a greater va-
riety of other subjects illustrated by similes; parti-
cularly the songs of bards, the beauty of women,
the different circumstances of old age, sorrow, and
private distress; which give occasion to much beau-
tiful imagery. What, for instance, can be more de-
licate and moving, than the following simile of
Oithona's, in her lamentation over the dishonour
she had suffered ? « Chief of Strumon,' replied the
sighing maid, ' why didst thou come over the dark-
blue wave to Nuath's mournful daughter ? Why did
not I pass away in secret, like the flower of the rock,
that lifts its fair head unseen, and strews its withered
leaves on the blast ?' The music of bards, a favourite
object with Ossian, is illustrated by a variety of the
most beautiful appearances that are to be found in
nature. It is compared to the calm shower of spring ;
to the dews of the morning on the hill of roes ; to
the face of the blue and still lake. Two similes on
this subject I shall quote, because they would do
honour to any of the most celebrated classics. The
one is : ■ Sit thou on the heath, O bard ! and let us
hear thy voice ; it is pleasant as the gale of the spring

146 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

that sighs on the hunter's ear, when lie wakens from
dreams of joy, and has heard the music of the
spirits of the hill.' The other contains a short, but
exquisitely tender image, accompanied with the
finest poetical painting. « The music of Carril was
like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant, and
mournful to the soul. The ghost of departed bards
heard it from Slimora's side. Soft sounds spread
along the wood ; and the silent valleys of night
rejoice.' What a figure would such imagery and
such scenery have made, had they been presented
to us adorned with the sweetness and harmony of
the Virgilian numbers !

I have chosen all along to compare Ossian with
Homer, rather than Virgil, for an obvious reason.
There is a much nearer correspondence between the
times and manners of the two former poets. Both
wrote in an early period of society ; both are ori-
ginals; both are distinguished by simplicity, sub-
limity, and fire. The correct elegance of Virgil, his
artful imitation of Homer, the Roman stateliness
which he every where maintains, admit no parallel
with the abrupt boldness, and enthusiastic warmth,
of the Celtic bard. In one article indeed there is a
resemblance. Virgil is more tender than Homer;
and thereby agrees more with Ossian ; with this dif-
ference, that the feelings of the one are more gentle
and polished, those of the other more strong; the
tenderness of Virgil softens, that of Ossian dissolves
and overcomes the heart.

A resemblance may be sometimes observed be-
tween Ossian's comparisons, and those employed by
the sacred writers. They abound much in thisfigure,
and they use it with the utmost propriety. The
imagery of Scripture exhibits a soil and climate al-
together different from those of Ossian : a warmer
country, a more smiling face of nature, the arts of
agriculture and of rural life much farther advanced.
The wine-press, and the threshing-floor, are often
presented to us, the cedar and the palm-tree, the
fragrance of perfumes, the voice of the turtle, and
the beds of lilies. The similes are, like Ossian's, ge-
nerally short, touching on one point of resemblance,

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 147
rather than spread out into little episodes. In the
following example maybe perceived what inexpres-
sible grandeur poetry receives from the intervention
of the Deity. ' The nations shall rush like the rush-
ings of many waters; but God shall rebuke them,
and they shall fly far off, and shall be chased as the
chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like the
down of the thistle before the whirlwind*.'

Besides formal comparisons, the poetry of Ossian
is embellished with many beautiful metaphors : such
as that remarkably fine one applied to Deugala :
' She was covered with the light of beauty; buther
heart was the house of pride.' This mode of ex-
pression, which suppresses the mark of comparison,
and substitutes a figured description in room of the
object described, is a great enlivener of style. It
denotes that glow and rapidity of fancy, which, with-
out pausing to form a regular simile, paints the ob-
ject at one stroke. ' Thou art to me the beam of
the east, rising in a land unknown.' « In peace,
thou art the gale of spring ; in war, the mountain
storm.' ■ Pleasant be thy rest, O lovely beam ! soon
hast thou set on our hills ! The steps of thy depar-
ture were stately, like the moon on the blue trem-
bling wave. But thou hast left us in darkness, first of
the maids of Lutha ! — Soon hast thou set, Malvina !
but thou risest, like the beam of the east, among the
spirits of thy friends, where they sit in their stormy
halls, the chambers of the thunder.' This is correct,
and finely supported. But in the following instance,
the metaphor, though very beautiful at the begin-
ning, becomes imperfect before it closes, by being
improperly mixed with the literal sense. ' Trathal
went forth with the stream of his people; but they
met a rock : Fingal stood unmoved ; broken they
rolled back from his side. Nor did they roll in
safety ; the spear of the king pursued their flight.'

The hyperbole is a figure which we might expect
to find often employed by Ossian; as the undisci-
plined imagination of early ages generally prompts

• Isaiah xvii. 13.

148 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

exaggeration, and carries its objects to excess;
whereas longer experience, and farther progress in
the arts of life, chasten men's ideas and expressions.
Yet Ossian's hyperboles appear not, to me, either
so frequent or so harsh as might at first have been
looked for ; an advantage owing, no doubt, to the
more cultivated state in which, as was before shown,
poetry subsisted among the ancient Celtae, than
among most other barbarous nations. One of the
most exaggerated descriptions in the whole work,
is what meets us at the beginning of Fingal, where
the scout makes his report to Cuthullin of the land-
ing of the foe. But this is so far from deserving
censure that it merits praise, as being, on that oc-
casion, natural and proper. The scout arrives,
trembling and full of fears; and it is well known,
that no passion disposes men to hyperbolize more
than terror. It both annihilates themselves in their
own apprehension, and magnifies every object which
they view through the medium of a troubled ima-
gination. Hence all those indistinct images of for-
midable greatness, the natural marks of a disturbed
and confused mind, which occur in Moran's descrip-
tion of Swaran's appearance, and in his relation of
the conference which they held together ; not unlike
the report which the affrighted Jewish spies made
to their leader, of the land of Canaan. ■ The land
through which we have gone to search it, is a land
that eateth up the inhabitants thereof; and all the
people that we saw in it are men of a great stature :
and there saw we giants, the sons of Anak, which
come of the giants ; and we were in our own sight
as grasshoppers, and so were we in their sight *.'

With regard to personifications, I formerly ob-
served that Ossian was sparing, and I accounted for
his being so. Allegorical personages he has none ;
and their absence is not to be regretted. For the in-
termixture of those shadowy beings, which have not
the support even of mythological or legendary belief,
with human actors, seldom produces a good effect.

' Numbers xiii. 32, 33.

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 149

The fiction becomes too visible and fantastic;
and overthrows that impression of reality, which
the probable recital of human actions is calculated
to make upon the mind. In the serious and pathetic
scenes of Ossian especially, allegorical characters
would have been as much out of place, as in tra-
gedy; serving only unseasonably to amuse the
fancy, whilst they stopped the current, and weak-
ened the force, of passion.

With apostrophes, or addresses to persons absent
or dead, which have been in all ages the language of
passion, our poet abounds ; and they are among his
highest beauties. Witness the apostrophe, in the
first book of Fingal, to the maid of Inistore, whose
lover had fallen in battle ; and that inimitably fine
one of Cuthullin to Bragela at the conclusion of
the same book. He commands the harp to be struck
in her praise; and the mention of Bragela's name,
immediately suggesting to him a crowd of tender
ideas; • Dost thou raise thy fair face from the
rocks,' he exclaims, ' to find the sails of Cuthullin ?
The sea is rolling far distant, and its white foam
shall deceive thee for my sails.' And now his
imagination being wrought up to conceive her as,
at that moment, really in this situation, he becomes
afraid of the harm she may receive from the in-
clemency of the night ; and with an enthusiasm,
happy and affecting, though beyond the cautious
strain of modern poetry, « Retire,' he proceeds,
* retire ; for it is night, my love, and the dark
winds sigh in thy hair. Retire to the hall of my
feasts, and think of the times that are past ; for I will
not return till the storm of war has ceased. O Con-
nel, speak of wars and arms, and send her from my
mind ; for lovely with her raven hair is the white-
bosomed daughter of Sorglan.' This breathes all
the native spirit of passion and tenderness.

The addresses to the sun, to the moon, and to the
evening star, mustdraw the attention of every reader
of taste, as among the most splendid ornaments of
this collection. The beauties of each are too great
and too obvious to need any particular comment.
In one passage only of the address to the moon

150 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

there appears some obscurity. « Whither dost thoa
retire from thy course when the darkness of thy
countenance grows ? Hast thou thy hall like Os-
sian ? Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? Have
thy sisters fallen from heaven ? Are they who re-
joiced with thee at night, no more? Yes, they have
fallen, fair light! and thou dost often retire to
mourn.' We may be at a loss to comprehend, at
first view, the ground of these speculations of Os-
sian, concerning the moon; but when all the cir-
cumstances are attended to, they will appear to flow
naturally from the present situation of his mind.
A mind under the dominion of any strong passion,
tinctures with its own disposition every object
which it beholds. The old bard, with his heart
bleeding for the loss of all his friends, is medi-
tating on the different phases of the moon. Her
waning and darkness presents to his melancholy
imagination the image of sorrow; and presently
the idea rises, and is indulged, that, like himself,
she retires to mourn over the loss of other moons,
or of stars, whom he calls her sisters, and fancies
to have once rejoiced with her at night, now fallen
from heaven. Darkness suggested the idea of
mourning, and mourning suggested nothing so
naturally to Ossian as the death of beloved friends.
An instance precisely similar of this influence of
passion may be seen in a passage which has always
been admired of Shakspeare's King Lear. The old
man on the point of distraction, through the in-
humanity of his daughters, sees Edgar appear dis-
guised like a beggar and a madman.

Lear — Didst thou give all to thy daughters ?
And art thou come to this?
Couldst thou leave nothing ? Didst thou give them
all?
Kent.— He hath no daughters, sir.
Lear. — Death, traitor ! nothing could have sub-
dued nature
To such a lowness, but his unkind daughters.

The apostrophe to the winds, in the opening of
Dar-thula, is in the highest spirit of poetry. « But

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 151
the winds deceive thee, O Dar-thula; and deny the
woody Etha to thy sails. These are not thy moun-
tains, Nathos, nor is that the roar of thy climbing
waves. The halls of Cairbar are near, and the
towers of the foe lift their head. Where have ye
been, ye southern winds ! when the sons of my love
were deceived ? But ye have been sporting on
plains, and pursuing the thistle's beard. O that
ye had been rustling in the sails of Nathos, till the
hills of Etha rose ! till they rose in their clouds,
and saw their coming chief*' This passage is re-
markable for the resemblance it bears to an ex-
postulation with the wood-nymphs, on their ab-
sence at a critical time; which, as a favourite
poetical idea, Virgil has copiedfrom Theocritus, and
Milton has very happily imitated from both.

Where were yc, nymphs ! when the remorseless

deep
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ?
For neither were ye playing on the steep
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie;
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona, high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.

Lycid.

Having now treated fully of Ossian's talents,
with respect to description and imagery, it only
remains to make some observations on his senti-
ments. No sentiments can be beautiful without
being proper ; that is, suited to the character and
situation of those who utter them. In this respect
Ossian is as correct as most writers. His charac-
ters, as above observed, are in general well sup-
ported; which could not have been the ease, had
the sentiments been unnatural or out of place. A
variety of personages, of different ages, sexes, and
conditions, are introduced into his poems; and
they speak and act with a propriety of sentiment
and behaviour which it is surprising to find in so
rude an age. Let the poem of Dar-thula, through-
out, be taken as an example.

But it is not enough that sentiments be natural

152 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

and proper. In order to acquire any high degree

of poetical merit, they must also be sublime and

pathetic.

The sublime is not confined to sentiment alone.
It belongs to description also; and whether in de-
scription or in sentiment, imports such ideas pre-
sented to the mind, as to raise it to an uncommon
degree of elevation, and fill it with admiration and
astonishment. This is the highest effect either of
eloquence or poetry ; and, to produce this effect, re-
quires a genius glowing with the strongest and
warmest conception of some object awful, great, or
magnificent. That this character of genius belongs
to Ossian, may, I think, sufficiently appear from
many of the passages I have already had occasion
to quote. To produce more instances were super-
fluous. If the engagement of Fingal with the spirit
of Loda, in Carric-thura; if the encounters of the
armies, in Fingal ; if the address to the Sun, in
Carthon; if the similes founded upon ghosts and
spirits of the night, all formerly mentioned, be not
admitted as examples, and illustrious ones too, of
the true poetical sublime, I confess myself entirely
ignorant of this quality of writing.

All the circumstances, indeed, of Ossian's com-
position are favourable to the sublime, more per-
haps than to any other species of beauty. Accu-
racy and correctness, artfully connected narra-
tion, exact method and proportion of parts, we
may look for in polished times. The gay and the
beautiful will appear to more advantage in the
midst of smiling scenery and pleasurable themes;
but, amidst the rude scenes of nature, amidst
rocks and torrents, and whirlwinds and battles,
dwells the sublime. It is the thunder and the
lightning of genius. It is the offspring of nature,
not of art. It is negligent of all the lesser graces,
and perfectly consistent with a certain noble disor-
der. It associates naturally with that grave and
solemn spirit which distinguishes our author. For
the sublime is an awful and serious emotion ; and
is heightened by all the images of trouble, and
terror, and darkness.

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 153
Ipse pater, media nimborum in nocte, coruscà
Fulmina molitur dextrà ; quo maxima motu
Terra tremit; fugerefera?; et mortalia corda
Per gentes, humilis stravit pavor ; ille, flagranti
Aut Atlio, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo

DejÌCÌt. VIKG. GEORG. I.

Simplicity and conciseness are never-failing cha-
racteristics of the style of a sublime writer. He
rests on the majesty of his sentiments, not. on the
pomp of his expressions. The main secret of being
sublime is, to say great things in few, and in plain
words : for every superfluous decoration degrades
a sublime idea. The mind rises and swells, when
a lofty description or sentiment is presented to it
in its native form. But no sooner does the poet at-
tempt to spread out this sentiment or description,
and to deck it round and round with glittering orna-
ments, than the mind begins to fall from its high
elevation ; the transport is over ; the beautiful may
remain, but the sublime is gone. Hence the con-
cise and simple style of Ossian gives great advan-
tage to his sublime conceptions ; and assists them
in seizing the imagination with full power.

Sublimity, as belonging to sentiment, coincides
in a great measure with magnanimity, heroism, and
generosity of sentiment. Whatever discovers hu-
man nature in its greatest elevation ; whatever be-
speaks a high effort of soul; or shows a mind su-
perior to pleasures, to dangers, and to death ; forms
what may be called the moral or sentimental sub-
lime. For this Ossian is eminently distinguished.
No poet maintains a higher tone of virtuous and
noble sentiment throughout all his works. Parti-
cularly in all the sentiments of Fingal there is a
grandeur and loftiness proper to swell the mind
with the highest ideas of human perfection. Where-
ever he appears, we behold the hero. The objects
which he pursues are always truly great; to bend
the proud; to protect the injured; to defend his
friends; to overcome his enemies by generosity
more than by force. A portion of the same spirit
actuates all the other heroes. Valour reigns ; but
H 2

154 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

it is a generous valour, void of cruelty, animated
by honour, not by hatred. We behold no debasing
passions among Fingal's warriors; no spirit of ava-
rice or of insult; but a perpetual contention for
fame ; a desire of being distinguished and remem-
bered for gallant actions; a love of justice; and a
zealous attachment to their friends and their coun-
try. Such is the strain of sentiment in the works
of Ossian.

But the sublimity of moral sentiments, if they
wanted the softening of the tender, would be in
hazard of giving a hard and stiff air to poetry. It
is not enough to admire. Admiration is a cold
feeling, in comparison of that deep interest which
the heart takes in tender and pathetic scenes ;
where, by a mysterious attachment to the objects
of compassion, we are pleased and delighted even
whilst we mourn. With scenes of this kind Ossian
abounds; and his high merit in these is incontesta-
ble. He may be blamed for drawing tears too
often from our eyes ; but that he has the power of
commanding them, I believe no man who has the
least sensibility will question. The general cha-
racter of his poetry is the heroic mixed with the
elegiac strain; admiration tempered with pity.
Ever fond of giving, as he expresses it, ' the joy
of grief ;' it is visible, that, on all moving subjects,
he delights to exert his genius ; and accordingly,
never were there finer pathetic situations than what
his works present. His great art in managing them
lies in giving vent to the simple and natural emo-
tions of the heart. We meet with no exaggerated
declamation; no subtile refinements on sorrow;
no substitution of description in place of passion.
Ossian felt strongly himself; and the heart, when
uttering its native language, never fails, by power-
ful sympathy, to affect the heart. A great variety
of examples might be produced. We need only
open the book to find them every where. What,
for instance, can be more moving than the la-
mentations of Oithona, after her misfortune ? Gaul,
the son of Morni, her lover, ignorant of what she
had suffered, comes to her rescue. Their meeting

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 155
is tender in the highest degree. He proposes to
engage her foe, in single combat, and gives her in
charge what she is to do, if he himself shall fall.
« And shall the daughter of Nuath live ?• she re-
plied, with a bursting sigh. ' Shall I live in Tro-
mathon, and the son of Morni low ? My heart is
not of that rock ; nor my soul careless as that sea
which lifts its blue waves to every wind, and rolls
beneath the storm. The blast which shall lay thee
low shall spread the branches of Oithona on earth.
We shall wither together, son of carborne Morni !
The narrow house is pleasant to me, and the gray-
stone of the dead ; for never more will I leave thy
rocks, sea-surrounded Tromathon ! — Chief of Stru-
mon, why earnest thou over the waves to Nuath's
mournful daughter ? Why did not I pass away in
secret, like the flower of the rock, that lifts its fair
head unseen, and strews its withered leaves on the
blast ? Why didst thou come, O Gaul ! to hear my
departing sigh ? — O had I dwelt at Duvranna, in
the bright beams of my fame ! Then had my years
come on with joy ; and the virgins would bless my
steps. But I fall in youth, son of Morni, and my
father shall blush in his hall.'

Oithona mourns like a woman; in Cuthullin's
expressions of grief after his defeat, we behold the
sentiments of a hero, generous, but desponding.
The situation is remarkably fine. Cuthullin, roused
from his cave, by the noise of battle, sees Fingal
victorious in the field. He is described as kindling
at the sight. « His hand is on the sword of his fa-
thers, his red-rolling eyes on the foe. He thrice
attempted to rush to battle; and thrice did Connal
stop him ;* suggesting that Fingal was routing the
foe; and that he ought not, by the show of super-
fluous aid, to deprive the king of any part of the
honour of a victory which was owing to him alone.
Cuthullin yields to this generous sentiment; but
we see it stinging him to the heart with the sense
of his own disgrace. « Then, Carril, go,' replied
the chief, « and greet the king of Morven. When
Lochlin falls away like a stream after rain, and the
noise of the battle is over, then be thy voice sweet

156 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

in his ear, to praise the king of swords. Give him
the sword of Caithbat; for Cuthullin is worthy no
more to lift the arms of his fathers. But, O ye
ghosts of the lonely Cromla ! Ye souls of chiefs that
are no more ! Be ye the companions of Cuthullin,
and talk to him in the cave of his sorrow. For ne-
ver more shall I be renowned among the mighty in
the land. I am like a beam that has shone : like a
mist that has fled away; when the blast of the
morning came, and brightened the shaggy side of
the hill. Connal! talk of arms no more: departed
is my fame. My sighs shall be on Cromla's wind ;
till my footsteps cease to be seen. And thou, white-
bosomed Bragela ! mourn over the fall of my fame ;
for vanquished I will never return to thee, thou
sunbeam of Dunscaich !'

jEstuat ingens

Uno in corde pudor, luctusque, et conscia virtus*

Besides such extended pathetic scenes, Ossian
frequently pierces the heart by a single unexpected
stroke. When Oscar fell in battle, ' No father
mourned his son slain in youth ; no brother, his bro-
ther of love ; they fell without tears, for the chief of
the people was low.' In the admirable interview of
Hector with Andromache, in the sixth Iliad, the cir-
cumstance of the child in his nurse's arms has often
been remarked, as adding much to the tenderness
of the scene. In the following passage relating to
the death of Cuthullin, we find a circumstance that
must strike the imagination with still greater force.
' And is the son of Semo fallen ?' said Carril with
a sigh. * Mournful are Tura's walls, and sorrow
dwells at Dunscaich. Thy spouse is left alone in her
youth ; the son of thy love is alone. He shall come
to Bragela, and ask her why she weeps. He shall
lift his eyes to the wall, and see his father's sword.
Whose sword is that ? he will say ; and the soul of
his mother is sad.' Soon after Fingal had shown
all the grief of a father's heart for Ryno, one of his
sons fallen in battle, he is calling, after his accus-
tomed manner, his sons to the chase, ' Call,' says

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 157
he, « Fillan and Ryno— But he is not here— My son
rests on the bed of death.' This unexpected start
of anguish is worthy of the highest tragic poet.

If she come in, she '11 sure speak to my wife. —
My wife ! — my wife ! — What wife ? — I have no wife —
Oh, insupportable ! Oh, heavy hour !

OTHELLO.

The contrivance of the incident in both poets is
similar; but the circumstances are varied with
judgment. Othello dwells upon the name of wife,
when it had fallen from him, with the confusion
and horror of one tortured with guilt. Fingal,
with the dignity of a hero, corrects himself, and
suppresses his rising grief.

The contrast which Ossian frequently makes
between his present and his former state, diffuses
over his whole poetry a solemn pathetic air, which
cannot fail to make impression on every heart.
The conclusion of the Songs of Selma is particularly
calculated for this purpose. Nothing can be more
poetical and tender, or can leave upon the mind a
stronger and more affecting idea of the venerable-
aged bard. « Such were the words of the bards in
the days of the song; when the king heard the
music of harps, and the tales of other times. The
chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the
lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona * ;
the first among a thousand bards. But age is now
on my tongue, and my soul has failed. I hear
sometimes the ghosts of bards, and learn their
pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind ! I
hear the call of years. They say, as they pass
along, Why does Ossian sing ? Soon shall he lie in
the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame.
Roll on, ye dark-brown years ! for ye bring no joy
in your course. Let the tomb open to Ossian, for
his strength has failed. The sons of the song are
gone to rest. My voice remains like a blast that

• Ossian himself is poetically called the voice of
Cona.

158 CRITICAL DISSERTATION

roars lonely on the sea-surrounded rock, after the
winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there, and
the distant mariner sees the waving trees.'

Upon the whole, if to feel strongly, and to de-
scribe naturally, be the two chief ingredients in po-
etical genius, Ossian must, after fair examination,
be held to possess that genius in a high degree.
The question is not, whether a few improprieties
may be pointed out in his works ; whether this or
that passage might not have been worked up with
more art and skill, by some writer of happier times ?
A thousand such cold and frivolous criticisms are
altogether indecisive as to his genuine merit. But
has he the spirit, the fire, the inspiration, of a poet ?
Does he utter the voice of nature ? Does he elevate
by his sentiments? Does he interest by his de-
scriptions ? Does he paint to the heart as well as
to the fancy ? Does he make his readers glow, and
tremble, and weep ? These are the great charac-
teristics of true poetry. Where these are found,
he must be a minute critic indeed who can dwell
upon slight defects. A few beauties of this high
kind transcend whole volumes of faultless medio-
crity. Uncouth and abrupt Ossian may sometimes
appear, by reason of his conciseness; but he is sub-
lime, he is pathetic, in an eminent degree. If he
has not the extensive knowledge, the regular dignity
of narration, the fulness and accuracy of descrip-
tion, which we find in Homer and Virgil, yet in
strength of imagination, in grandeur of sentiment,
in native majesty of passion, he is fully their equal.
If he flows not always like a clear stream, yet he
breaks forth often like a torrent of fire. Of art too
he is far from being destitute ; and his imagination
is remarkable for delicacy as well as strength. Sel-
dom or never is he either trifling or tedious; and
if he be thought too melancholy, yet he is always
moral. Though his merit were in other respects
much less than it is, this alone ought to entitle him
to high regard, that his writings are remarkably
favourable to virtue. They awake the tenderest
sympathies, and inspire the most generous emo-
tions. No reader can rise from him without being

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 159

warmed with the sentiments of humanity, virtue,
and honour.

Though unacquainted with the original language,
there is no one but must judge the translation to
deserve the highest praise, on account of its beauty
and elegance. Of its faithfulness and accuracy, I
have been assured by persons skilled in the Galic
tongue, who from their youth were acquainted with
many of these poems of Ossian. To transfuse such
spirited and fervid ideas from one language into
another; to translate literally, and yet with such
a glow of poetry; to keep alive so much passion,
and support so much dignity throughout; is one
of the most difficult works of genius, and proves the
translator to have been animated with no small
portion of Ossian's spirit.

The measured prose which he has employed pos-
sesses considerable advantages above any sort of ver-
sification he could have chosen. Whilst it pleases
and fills the ear with a variety of harmonious ca-
dences, being, at the same time, freer from con-
straint in the choice and arrangement of words, it
allows the spirit of the original to be exhibited
with more justness, force, and simplicity. Elegant,
however, and masterly as Mr. Macpherson's trans-
lation is, we must never forget, whilst we read it,
that we are putting the merit of the original to a
severe test. For we are examining a poet stripped
of his native dress, divested of the harmony of his
own numbers. We know how much grace and
energy the works of the Greek and Latin poets re-
ceive from the charm of versification in their ori-
ginal languages. If, then, destitute of this advan-
tage, exhibited in a literal version, Ossian still has
power to please as a poet ; and not to please only,
but often to command, to transport, to melt, the
heart ; we may very safely infer, that his produc-
tions are the offspring of true and uncommon ge-
nius; and we may boldly assign him a place among
those whose works are to last for ages.

CRITICAL DISSERTATION

Pugnavimus ensibus
Haud post longum tempus
Cum in Gotlandia accessimus
Ad serpentis immensi necem
Tunc impetravimus Thoram
Ex' hoc vocarunt me virum
Quod serpentem transfodi
Hirsutam braccam ob illam csedem
Cuspide ictum intuli in colubrum
Fero lucidorum stupendiorum.

Multum juvenis fui quando acquisivimus

Orientem versus in Oreonico freto

Vulnerum amnes avidae ferae

Et flavipedi avi

Accepimus ibidem sonuerunt

Ad sublimes galeas

Dura ferra magnam escam

Omnis erat oceanus vulnus

Vadavit corvus in sanguine caesorum.

Alte tulimus tunc lanceas

Quando viginti annos numeravimus

Et celebrem laudem comparavimus passim

Vicimus octo barones

In oriente ante Dimini portum

Aquilaj impetravimus tunc sufficientem

Hospitii sumptum in ilia strage

Sudor decidit in vulnerum

Oceano perdidit exercitus aetatem.

Pugnae facta copia

Cum Helsingianos postulavimus

Ad aulam Odini

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAX.
Naves direximus in ostium Vistula
Mucro potuit turn mordere
Omnis erat vulnus unda
Terra rubefacta calido
Frendebat gladius in loricas •

Gladius findebat clypeos.

Memini neminem tunc fugisse
Priusquam in navibus
Heraudus in bello caderet
Non findit navibus
Alius baro praestantior
Mare ad portum
In navibus longis post ilium
Sic attulit princeps passim
Alacre in helium cor.

Exercitus abjecit clypeos
Cum hasta volavit
Ardua ad virorum pectora
Momordit Scarforum cautes
Gladius in pugna
Sanguineus erat clypeus
Antequam Rafno rex caderet
Fluxit ex virorum capitibus
Calidas in loricas sudor.

Habere potuerunt turn corvi
Ante Indirorum insulas
Sufficientem praedam dilaniandam
Acquisivimus feris carnivoris
Plenum prandium unico actu
Difficile erat unius facere mentionem
Oriente sole
Spicula vidi pungere
Propulerunt arcus ex se ferra.

Altum mugierunt enses
Antequam in Laneo campo
Eislinus rex cecidit

CRITICAL DISSERTATION

Processimus auro ditati
Ad terrain prostratorum dimicandun
Gladius secuit clypeorum
Picturas in galearum conventu
Cervicum mustum ex vulneribus
Diffusum per cerebrum fissum.

Tenuimus elypeos in sanguine

Cum hastam unximus

Ante Boring holmum

Telorum nubes disrumpunt clypeum

Extrusit areus ex se metallum

Volnir cecidit in conflictu

Non erat illo rex major

C»si dispersi late per littora

Ferae amplectebantur eseam.

Pugna manifeste crescebat

Antequam Freyr rex caderet

In Flandorum terra

Ceepit coeruleus ad incidendum

Sanguine illitus ad auream

Loricam in pugna

Durus armorum mucro olim

Virgo deploravit matutinam lanienam

Multa prseda dabatur feris.

Centies centenos vidijacere

In navibus

Ubi .Englanes vocatur

Navigavimus ad pugnam

Per sex dies antequam exercitus cadere:

Transegimus mucronum missam

In exortu solis

Coactus est pro nostris gladiis

Valdiofur in bello occumbere.

Ruit pluvia sanguinis de gladiis
Pra?ceps in Bardafyrde
Pallidum corpus quo accipitribus

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 163

Murmuravit arcus ubi mucro
Acriter mordebat loricas
In conflietu
Odini pileus galea
Cucurrit arcus ad vulnus
Venetate acutus conspersus sudore sanguineo.

Tenuimus raagica scuta

Alte in pugnae ludo

Ante Hiadningum sinum

Videre licuit turn viros

Qui gladiis lacerarunt clypeos

In gladiatorio murmure

Galea; attritse virorum

Erat sicut splendidam virginem

In lecto juxta se collocare.

Dura venit tempestas clypeis

Cadaver cecidit in terrain

In Nortumbria

Erat circa matutinum tempus

Hominibus necessum erat fugere

Ex prselio ubi acute

Cassidis campos mordebant gladii

Erat hoc veluti juvenem viduum

In primaria sede osculari.

Herthiose evasit fortunatus
In Australibus Orcadibus ipse
Victoriae in nostris hominibus
Cogebatur in armorum uimbo
Itogvaldus occumberc
Iste venit summus super accipitres
Luctus in gladiorum ludo
Strenue jactabat concussor
Galeae sanguinis teli.

Quilibet jacebat transversim supra alium
Gaudebat pugna laetus
Accipiter ob gladiorum ludurn

CRITICAL DISSERTATION
Non fecit aquilara aut aprum
Qui Irlandiam gubernavit
Conventus fiebat ferri et clypei
Marstanus rex jejunis
Fiebat in vedraa sinu
Praeda data corvis.

Bellatorem multum vidi cadere
Mante ante machaeram
Virum in mucronum dissidio
Filio meo incidit mature
Glaudius juxta cor
Egillus fecit Agnerum spoliatum
Imperterritum virum vita
Sonuit lancea prope Hamdi
Griseam loricam splendebant vexilla.

Verborum tenaces vidi dissecare

Haud minutim pro lupis

Endili maris ensibus

Erat per hebdomadae spatium

Quasi mulieres vinum apportarent

Rubefactae erant naves

Valde in strepitu armorum

Scissa erat lorica

In Scioldungorum praelio.

Pulchricomum vidi crepusculascero
Virginis amatorem circa matutinum
Et confabulationis amicum viduarum
Erat sicut calidum balneum
Vinei vasis nympha portaret
Nos in Has freto
Antiquam Orn rex cederet
Sanguineum clypeum vidi ruptum
Hoc invertit virorum vitam.

Egimus gladiorum ad caedem
Ludum in Lindis insula
Cum regibus tribus

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
Pauci potuerunt hide laetari
Cecidit multus in rictum ferarum
Accipiter dilaniavit carnem cum lupo
Ut satur inde discederet
Hybernorum sanguis in oceanum
Copiose decidit per maetationis tempus.

Alte gladius mordebat clypeos
Tunc cum aurei coloris
Hasta fricabat lorieas
Videre licuit in Onlugs insula
Per secula multum post
Ibi fuit ad gladiorum ludos
Reges processerunt
Rubicundum erat circa insulam
Ac volans Draco vulnerum.

Quid est viro forti morte certius
Etsi ipse in armorum nimbo
Adversus collocatus sit
Saepe deplorat a?tatem
Qui nunquam premitur
Malum ferunt timidum incitare
Aquilam ad gladiorum ludum
Meticulosus venit nuspiam
Cordi suo usui.

Hoc numero aequum ut procedat

In contactu gladiorum

Juvenis unus contra alterum

Non retrocedat vir a viro

Hoc fuit viri fortis nobilitas diu

Semper debet amoris amicus virginum

Audax esse in freinitu armorum.

Hoc videtur mihi re vera

Quod fata sequimur

Rarus transgreditur fata Parcarum

Non destinavi Ella?

De vitse exitu meae

CRITICAL DISSERTATION

Cum ego sanguinem semimortuus tegerem
Et naves in aquas protrusi
Passim impetravimus turn feris
Escam in Scotiae sinibus.

Hoc ridere me facit semper
Quod Balderi patris scamna
Parata scio in aula
Bibemus cerevisiam brevi
Ex coneavis crateribus craniorum
Non gemit vir fortis contra mortem
Magnifici in Odini domibus
Non venio desperabundis
Verbis ad Odini aulam.

Hie vellent nunc omnes
Filii Aslaugae gladiis
Amarura bellum excitare
Si exacte scirent
Calamitates nostras
Quern non pauci angues
Venenati me discerpunt
Matrem accepi meis
Filiis ita ut corda valeant.

Valde inclinatur ad haereditatem

Crudele stat nocumentum a vipera

Anguis inhabitat aulam cordis

Speramus alterius ad Othini

Virgam in Ellas sanguine

Filiis meis livescet

Sua ira rubescet

Non acres juvenes

Sessionem tranquillam facient.

Habeo quinquagies
Praelia sub sign is facta
Ex belli invitatione et semel
Minime putavi hominum
Quod me futurus cssct

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
Juvenis didici mucronem rubefacere
Alius rex praestantior
Nos Asa? invitabunt
Non est lugenda mors.

Fert animus finire
Invitant me Dysae
Quas ex Othini aula
Othinus mihi misit
Laetus cerevisiam cum Asis
In summa sede bibam
Vitas elapsaj sunt horae
Ridens moriar.

POEMS OF OSSIAN.

ARGUMENT OF DUAN I.

Fingal, when very young, making a voyage to the
Orkney Islands, was driven, by stress of weather,
into a bay of Scandinavia, near the residence of
starno, king of Lochlin. Starno im ites Fingal to
a feast. Fingal, doubting the faith of the king,
and mindful of a former breach of hospitality,
refuses to go — Starno gathers together his tribes ;
Fingal resolves to defend himself — Night coming
on, Duth-maruno proposes to Fingal to observe
the motions of the enemy. — The king himself
undertakes the watch. Advancing towards the
enemy, he accidentally comes to the cave of
Turthor, where Starno had confined Conban-
cargla, the captive daughter of a neighbouring
chief. — Her story is imperfect, a part of the ori-
ginal being lost — Fingal comes to a place of wor-
ship, where Starno and his son Swaran consulted
the spirit of Loda concerning the issue of the

war. — The rencounter of Fingal and Swaran

Duan first concludes with a description of the
airy hall of Cruthloda, supposed to be the Odin
of Scandinavia.

CATH-LODA.

• DUAN I.

A TALE of the times of old !

Why, thou wanderer unseen ! thou bender of the
thistle of Lora ; why, thou breeze of the valley,
hast thou left mine ear ? I hear no distant roar of
streams ! No sound of the harp from the rock !
Come, thou huntress of Lutha, Malvina, call back
his soul to the bard. I look forward to Lochliu of
lakes, to the dark billowy bay of U-thorno, where
Fingal descends from ocean, from the roar of winds.
Few are the heroes of Morven in a land unknown !

Starno sent a dweller of Loda to bid Fingal to
the feast; but the king remembered the past, and
all his rage arose. ' Nor Gormal's mossy towers,
nor Starno, shall Fingal behold. Deaths wander,
like shadows, over his fiery soul! Do I forget that
beam of light, the white-handed daughter of kings t?
Go, son of Loda; his words are wind to Fingal:
wind that, to and fro, drives the thistle in autumn's
dusky vale. Duth-raaruno, arm of death ! Crom-
ma-glas, of iron shields! Struthmor, dweller of bat-
tle's wing ! Cormar, whose ships bound on seas,
careless as the course of a meteor, on dark-rolling
clouds ! Arise around me, children of heroes, in a
land unknown ! Let each look on his shield, like
Trenmor, the ruler of wars.' — * Come down,' thns
Trenmor said, ' thou dweller between the harps !
Thou shalt roll this stream away, or waste with me
in earth.'

Around the king they rise in wrath. No words
come forth : they seize their spears. Each soul is
rolled into itself. At length the sudden clang is

• The bards distinguished those compositions, in
which the narration is often interrupted by episodes
and apostrophes, by the name of Duan.

\ Agandecca, the daughter of Starno, whom her
father killed, on account of her discovering to
Fingal a plot laid against his life.

172 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

waked on all their echoing shields. Each takes his
hill by night ; at intervals they darkly stand. Un-
equal bursts the hum of songs between the roaring
wind !

Broad over them rose the moon !
In his arms came tall Dulh-maruno; he, from
Croma of rocks, stern hunter of the boar ! In his
dark boat he rose on waves, when Crumthormo •
awaked its woods. In the chase he shone among
foes: No fear was thine, Duth-maruno!

« Son of daring Comhal, shall my steps be for-
ward through night ? From this shield shall I view
them over their gleaming tribes ? Starno, king of
lakes, is before me, and Swaran, the foe of strangers.
Their words are not in vain, by Loda's stone of
power. Should Duth-maruno not return, his spouse
is lonely at home, where meet two roaring streams
on Crathmo-craulo's plain. Around are hills, with
echoing woods, the ocean is rolling near. My son
looks on screaming sea-fowl, a young wanderer on
the field. Give the head of a boar to Candona, tell
him of his father's joy, when the bristly strength
of U-thorno rolled on his lifted spear. Tell him of
my deeds in war! Tell where his father fell!'

* Not forgetful of my fathers,' said Fingal, ' I
have bounded over the seas. Theirs were the times
of danger, in the days of old. Nor settles darkness
on me, before foes, though youthful in my locks.
Chief of Crathmo-craulo, the field of night is mine.'
Fingal rushed, in all his arms, wide-bounding over
Turthor's stream, that sent its sullen roar, by night,
through Gormal's misty vale. A moonbeam glittered
on a rock ; in the midst stood a stately form ; a form
with floating locks, like Lochlin's white-bosomed
maids. Unequalareher steps, and short. She throws
a broken song on wind. At times she tosses her
white arms; for grief is dwelling in her soul.

' Toreul-torno, of aged locks !' she said, « where
now are thy steps, by Lulan ? Thou hast failed at

• Crumthormoth, one of the Orkney or Shetland
islands.

CATH-LODA. 173

thine own dark streams, father of Conban-càrgla !
But I behold thee, chief of Lulan, sporting by
Loda's hall, when the dark-skirted night is rolled
along the sky. Thou sometimes hidest the moon
with thy shield. I have seen her dim in heaven.
Thou kindlest thy hair into meteors, and sailest
along the night. Why am I forgot in my cave,
king of shaggy boars ? Look from the hall of Loda
on thy lonely daughter.'

' Who art thou,' said Fingal, * voice of night ?'
She, trembling, turned away.
• Who art thou, in thy darkness?'
She shrunk into the cave.

The king loosed the thong from her hands. He
asked about her fathers.

' Torcul torno,' she said, * once dwelt at Lulan's
foamy stream : he dwelt — but now, in Loda's hall,
he shakes the sounding shell. He met Starno of
Lochlin in war ; long fought the dark-eyed kings.
My father fell, in his blood, blue-shielded Torcul-
torno ! By a rock, at Lulan's stream, I had pierced
the bounding roe. My white hand gathered my
hair from off the rushing winds. I heard a noise.
Mine eyes were up. My soft breast rose on high.
My step was forward, at Lulan, to meet thee, Tor-
cul-torno ! It was Starno, dreadful king ! His red
eyes rolled on me in love. Dark waved his shaggy
brow above his gathered smile. Where is my father,
I said, he that was mighty in war ? Thou art left
alone among foes, O daughter of Torcul-toruo ! He
took my hand. He raised the sail. In this cave he
placed me dark. At times he comes a gathered
mist. He lifts before me my father's shield. But
often passes a beam of youth, far distant from my
cave. The son of Starno moves in my sight. He
dwells lonely in my soul.'

■ Maid of Lulan,' said Fingal, * white-handed
daughter of grief ! a cloud, marked with streaks of
fire, is rolled along my soul. Look not to that
dark-robed moon ; look not to those meteors of
heaven. My gleaming steel is around thee, the ter-
ror of thy foes ! It is not the steel of the feeble, nor
of the dark in soul ! The maids are not shut in

174 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

our caves of streams. They toss not their white
arms alone. They bend fair within their locks
above the harps of Selma. Their voice is not in the
desert wild. We melt along the pleasing sound !'

Fingal again advanced his steps, wide through the
bosom of night, to where the trees of Loda shook
amid squally winds. Three stones, with heads of
moss, are there; a stream with foaming course: and
dreadful, rolled around them, is the dark-red cloud
of Loda. High from its top looked forward a
ghost, half- formed of the shadowy smoke. He pour-
ed his voice, at times, amidst the roaring stream.
Near, bending beneath a blasted tree, two heroes
received his words: Swaran of Lakes, and Starno,
foe of strangers. On their dun shields they darkly
leaned: their spears are forward through night.
Shrill sounds the blast of darkness in Starno's
floating beard.

They heard the tread of Fingal. The warriors
rose in arms. * Swaran, lay that wanderer low,'
said Starno, in his pride. « Take the shield of thy
father. It is a rock in war.' Swaran threw his
gleaming spear It stood fixed in Loda's tree. Then
came the foes forward with swords. They mixed
their rattling steel. Through the thongs of Swaran's
shield rushed the blade * of Luno. The shield fell
rolling on earth. Cleft the helmet fell down. Fin-
gal stopt the lifted steel. Wrathful stood Swaran,
unarmed. He rolled his silent eyes; he threw his
sword on earth. Then slowly stalking over the
stream, he whistled as he went.

Nor unseen of his father is Swaran. Starno turns
away in wrath. His shrggy brows wave dark above
his gathered rage. He strikes Loda's tree with his
spear. He raises the hum of songs. They come to
the host of Lochlin, each in his own dark path ; like
two foam-covered streams from two rainy vales!

To Turthor's plain Fingal returned. Fair rose the

* The sword of Fingal, so called from its maker,
Luno of Lochlin.

CATH-LODA. 17.5

beam of the east. It shone on the spoils of Loch-
lin in the hand of the king. From her cave came
forth, in her beauty, the daughter of Torcul-torno.
She gathered her hair from wind. She wildly
raised her song. The song of Lulan of shells,
where once her father dwelt. She saw Starno's
bloody shield. Gladness rose a light on her face.
She saw the cleft helmet ofSwaran. She shrunk,
darkened, from Fingal. ' Art thou fallen by thy
hundred streams, O love of the mournful maid ':'

U-thorno, that risest in waters! on whose side
are the meteors of night ! I behold the dark moon
descending behind thy resounding woods. On thy
top dwells the misty Loda: the house of the spi-
rits of men ! In the end of his cloudy hall bends
forward Cruth-loda of swords. His form is dimly
seen amid his wavy mist. His right hand is on
his shield. In his left is the half-viewless shell.
The roof of his dreadful hall is marked with nightly
fires!

The race of Cruth-loda advance, a ridge of form-
less shades. He reaches the sounding shell to
those who shone in war. But, between him and the
feeble, his shield rises a darkened orb. He is a
setting meteor to the weak in arms. Bright as a
rainbow on streams came Lulan's white-bosomed
maid.

CATH-LODA,

DUAN II.

[Fingal returning with day, devolves the command
on Duth-maruno, who engages the enemy, and
drives them over the stream of Turthor. Having
recalled his people, he congratulates Duth-ma-
runo on his success, but discovers that that hero
had been mortally wounded in the action. —
Duth-maruno dies. Ullin, the bard, in honour
of the dead, introduces the episode of Colgorm
and Strina-dona, which concludes this duan.]

'WHERE art thou, son of the king ?' said dark-
haired Duth-maruno. ' Where hast thou failed,
young beam of Selma ? He returns not from the
bosom of night ! Morning is spread on U-thorno.
In his mist is the sun on his hill. Warriors lift the
shields in my presence. He must not fall, like a
fire from heaven, whose place is not marked on the
ground. He comes like an eagle from the skirt of
his squally wind! In his hand are the spoils of
foes. King of Selma, our souls were sad !'

' Near us are the foes, Duth-maruno. They
come forward, like waves in mist, when their foamy
tops are seen, at times, above the low-sailing va-
pour. The traveller shrinks on his journey ; he
knows not whither to fly. No trembling travellers
are we ! Sons of heroes, call forth the steel. Shall
the sword of Fingal arise, or shall a warrior lead ?'

The deeds of old, said Duth-maruno, are like
paths to our eyes, O Fingal ! Broad-shielded Tren-
mor is still seen amidst his own dim years. Nor
feeble was the soul of the king. There no dark
deed wandered in secret. From their hundred
streams came the tribes to grassy Colglancrona.
Their chiefs were before them. Each strove to lead
the war. Their swords were often half-unsheathed.
Red rolled their eyes of rage. Separate they stood,
aud hummed their surly songs. ' Why should they

CATH-LODA. j 77

yield to each other? their fathers were equal in
war.' Trenmor was there, with his people, stately
in youthful locks. He saw the advancing foe. The
grief of his soul arose. He bade the chiefs to lead
by turns: they led, but they were rolled away.
From his own mossy hill blue-shielded Trenmor
came down. He led wide-skirted battle, and the
strangers failed. Around him the dark-browed
warriors came : they struck the shield of joy. Like
a pleasant gale the words of power rushed forth
from Selma of kings. But the chiefs led by turns,
in war, till mighty danger rose: then was the hour
of the king to conquer in the field.

* Not unknown,' said Cromma-glass of shields,
■ are the deeds of our fathers. But who shall now
lead the war before the race of kings ? Mist settles
on these four dark hiils: within it let each warrior
strike his shield. Spirits may descend in darkness,
and mark us for the war.'

They went each to his hill of mist. Bards marked
the sounds of the shields. Loudest rung thy boss,
Duth-maruno. Thou must lead in war!

Like the murmur of waters the race of U-thorno
came down. Starno led the battle, and Swaran
of stormy isles. They looked forward from iron
shields, like Cruth-loda, fiery-eyed, when he looks
from behind the darkened moon, and strews his
signs on night. The foes met by Turthor's stream.
They heaved like ridgy waves. Their echoing
strokes are mixed. Shadowy death flies over the
hosts. They were clouds of hail, with squally
winds in their skirts. Their showers are roaring
together. Below them swells the dark-rolling deep.

Strife of gloomy U-thorno, why should I mark
thy wounds? Thou art with the years that are
gone ; thou fadest on my soul !

Starno brought forward his skirt of war, and
Swaran his own dark wing. Nor a harmless fire is
Duth-maruno's sword. Lochlin is rolled over her
streams. The wrathful kings are lost in thought.
They roll their silent eyes over the flight of their
land. The horn of Fingal was heard ; the sons of
I?

178 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

woody Albion returned. But many lay, by Tur-

thor's stream, silent in their blood.

' Chief of Crathmo,' said the king, ' Duth-maru-
no, hunter of boars ! not harmless returns my eagle
from the field of foes ! For this white-boscmed La-
uul shall brighten at her streams; Candona shall
rejoice as he wanders in Crathmo's fields.'

« Colgorm,' replied the chief, ' was the first of
my race in Albion; Colgorm, the rider of ocean,
through its watery vales. He slew his brother in
I-thorno • : he left the land of his fathers. He chose
his place, in silence, by rocky Crathmo-craulo. His
race came forth in their years; they came forth to
war, but they always fell. The wound of my fathers
is mine, king of echoing isles!'

He drew an arrow from his side ! He fell pale
in a land unknown. His soul came forth to his fa-
thers to their stormy isle. There they pursued boars
of mist along the skirts of winds. The chiefs stood
silent around, as the stones of Loda, on their hill.
The traveller sees them, through the twilight, from
his lonely path. He thinks them the ghosts of the
aged, forming future wars.

Night came down on U-thorno. Still stood the
chiefs in their grief. The blast whistled, by turns,
through every warrior's hair. Fingal, at length,
broke forth from the thoughts of his soul. He called
Ullin of harps, and bade the song to rise. No fall-
ing fire, that is only seen, and then retires in night ;
no departing meteor was he that is laid so low. He
was like the strong-beaming sun, long rejoicing on
his hill. Call the names of his fathers from their
dwellings old !

I-thorno, said the bard, that risest midst ridgy
seas ! Why is thy head so gloomy in the ocean's
mist ? From thy vales came forth a race, fearless as
thy strong- winged eagles; the race of Colgorm of
iron shields, dwellers of Loda's hall.

In Tormoth's resounding isle arose Lurthan,

• An island of Scandinavia.

CATH-LODA. 179

streamy hill. It bent its woody head over a silent
vale. There, at foamy Cruruth's source, dwelt Rur-
mar, hunter of boars ! His daughter was fair as a
sunbeam, white-bosomed Strina-dona!

Many a king of heroes, and hero of iron shields ;
many a youth of heavy locks came to Rurmar's
echoing hall. They came to woo the maid, the
stately huntress of Tormoth wild. But thou lookest
careless from thy steps, high-bosomed Strina-dona.
If on the heath she moved, her breast was whiter
than the down of cana *; if on the sea-beat shore,
than the foam of the rolling ocean. Her eyes were
two stars of light. Her face was heaven's bow in
showers. Her dark hair flowed round it like the
streaming clouds. Thou wert the dweller of souls,
white-handed Strina-dona !

Colgorm came in his ship, and Corcul-suran,
king of shells. The brothers came from I-thorno to
woo the sunbeam of Tormoth wild. She saw them
in their echoing steel. Her soul was fixed on blue-
eyed Colgorm. Ul-lochlin's t nightly eye looked in
and saw the tossing arms of Strina-dona.

Wrathful the brothers frowned. Their flaming
eyes in silence met. They turned away. They
struck their shields. Their hands were trembling
on their swords. They rushed into the strife of
heroes for long-haired Strina-dona.

Corcul-suran fell in blood. On his isle raged the
strength of his father. He turned Colgorm, from
I-thorno, to wander on all the winds. In Crathmo-
craulo's rocky field he dwelt by a foreign stream.
Nor darkened the king alone, that beam of light
was near, the daughter of echoing Tormoth, white-
armed Strina-dona.

• The cana is a certain kind of grass which grows
plentifully in the heathy morasses of the north.

+ Ul-lochliri, ' the guide to Lochlin;' the name
of a star.

CATH-LODA.

DUAN III.

[Ossian, after some general reflections, describes the
situation of Fingal, and the position of the army
of Lochlin. — The conversation of Starno and
Swaran. The episode of Corman-trunar and
Foina-bràgal. — Starno, from his own example,
recommends to Swaran to surprise Fingal, who
had retired alone to a neighbouring hill. Upon
Swaran's refusal, Starno undertakes the enter-
prise himself, is overcome, and taken prisoner by
Fingal. He is dismissed, after a severe reprimand
for his cruelty.]

WHENCE is the stream of years ? Whither do they
roll along ? Where have they hid, in mist, their
many-coloured sides?

I look into the times of old, but they seem dim
to Ossian's eyes, like reflected moonbeams on a
distant lake. Here rise the red beams of war !
There silent dwells a feeble race ! They mark no
years with their deeds, as slow they pass along.
Dweller between the shields 1 thou that awakest
the failing soul ! descend from thy wall, harp of
Cona, with thy voices three ! Come with that which
kindles the past : rear the forms of old on their own
dark-brown years !

U-thorno, hill of storms, I behold my race on thy
side. Fingal is bending in night over Dulh-ma-
runo'stomb. Near him are the steps of his heroes,
hunters of the boar. By Turthor's stream the host
of Lochlin is deep in shades. The wrathful kings
stood on two hills; they looked forward from their
bossy shields. They looked forward to the stars of
night, red-wandering in the west. Cruth-loda bends
from high, like a formless meteor in clouds. He
sends abroad the winds, and marks them with his
signs. Starno foresaw that Morveu's king was not
to yield in war.

CATH-LODA. 181

He twice struck the tree in wrath. He rushed
before his son. He hummed a surly song; and
heard his air in wind. Turned from one another,
they stood, like two oaks, which different winds
had bent; each hangs over its own loud rill, and
shakes its boughs in the course of blasts.

' Annir,' said Starno of lakes, ' was a fire that
consumed of old. He poured death from his eyes
along the striving fields. His joy was in the fall
of men. Blood to him was a summer stream, that
brings joy to withered vales from its own mossy
rock. He came forth to the lake Luth-cormo to
meet the tall Corman-trunar, he from Urlor of
streams, dweller of battle's wing.'

The chief of Urlor had come to Gormal with his
dark-bosomed ships. He saw the daughter of Annir,
white-armed Foina-brAga!. He saw her ! Nor care-
less rolled her eyes on the rider of stormy waves.
She fled to his ship in darkness, like a moonbeam
through a nightly vale. Annir pursued along the
deep ; he called the winds of heaven. Nor alone was
the king ! Starno was by his side. Like U-thorno's
young eagle I turned my eyes on my father.

We rushed into roaring Urlor. With his people
came tall Corman-trunar. We fought ; but the foe
prevailed. In his wrath my father stood. He
lopped the young trees with his sword. His eyes
rolled red in his rage. I marked the soul of the
king, and I retired in night. From the field I took
a broken helmet : a shield that was pierced with
steel : pointless was the spear in my hand. I went
to find the foe.

On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar beside his
burning-oak; and near him, beneath a tree, sat
deep-bosomed Foina-bràgal. I threw my broken
shield before her. I spoke the words of peace.
* Beside his rolling sea lies Annir of many lakes.
The king was pierced in battle ; and Starno is to
raise his tomb. Me, a son of Loda, he sends to
white-handed Foina.. to bid her send a lock from her
hair to rest with her father in earth. And thou,
king of roaring Urlor, let the battle cease, till Annir
receive the shell from fiery-eyed Cruth-loda,.'

182 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Bursting into tears, she rose and tore a lock from
her hair ; a lock which wandered in the blast along
her heaving breast. Corman-trunar gave the shell,
and bade me to rejoice before him. I rested in the
shade of night, and hid my face in my helmet deep.
Sleep descended on the foe. I rose like a stalking
ghost. I pierced the side of Corman-trunar. Nor
did Foina-bràgal escape. She rolled her white bosom
in blood.

Why then, daughter of heroes, didst thou wake
my rage ?

Morning rose. The foe were fled, like the de-
parture of mist. Annir struck his bossy shield. He
called his dark-haired son. I came, streaked with
wandering blood : thrice rose the shout of the king,
like the bursting forth of a squall of wind from a
cloud by night. We rejoiced three days above the
dead, and called the hawks of heaven. They came
from all their winds to feast on Annir's foes. Swa-
ran, Fingal is alone on his hill of night. Let thy
spear pierce the king in secret ; like Annir, my soul
shall rejoice.

' Son of Annir,' said Swaran, ' I shall not slay in
shades; I move forth in light: the hawks rush from
all their winds. They are wont to trace my course :
it is not harmless through war.'

Burning rose the rage of the king. He thrice
raised his gleaming spear. But, starting, he spared
his son ; and rushed into the night. By Turthor's
stream a cave is dark, the dwelling of Conban-car-
glas. There he laid the helmet of kings, and called
the maid of Lulan ; but she was distant far in Loda's
resounding hill.

Swelling in his rage, he strode to where Fingal lay
alone. The king was laid on his shield, on his own
secret hill.

Stern hunter of shaggy boars ! no feeble maid is
laid before thee. No boy on his ferny bed, by Tur-
thor's murmuring stream. Here is spread the
couch of the mighty, from which they rise to deeds
of death ! Hunter of shaggy boars, awaken not the
terrible !
Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose in arms.

CATH-LODA. 183

' Who art thou, son of night ?' Silent he threw the
spear. They mixed their gloomy strife. The shield
of Starno fell, cleft in twain. He is bound to an oak.
The early beam arose. It was then Fingal beheld
the king. He rolled awhile his silent eyes. He
thought of other days, when white-bosomed Agan-
deeca moved like the music of songs. He loosed the
thong from his hands. Son of Annir, he said, retire.
Retire to Gormal of shells ; a beam that was set
returns. I remember thy white-bosomed daughter :
dreadful king, away ! Go to thy troubled dwelling,
cloudy foe of the lovely ! Let the stranger shun
thee, thou gloomy in the hall !
A tale of the times of old !

COMALA.

[This poem is valuable on account of the light it
throws on the antiquity of Ossian's compositions.
The Caracul mentioned here is the same with
Caracalla, the son of Severus, who, in the year
211, commanded an expedition against the Cale-
donians. The variety of the measure shows that
the poem was originally set to music, and perhaps
presented before the chiefs upon solemn occa-
sions. Tradition has handed down the story more
complete than it is in the poem. ' Comala, the
daughter of !»arno, king of Inistore, or Orkney
islands, fell in love with Fingal, the son of Com-
hal, at a feast, to which her father had invited
him [Fingal, B. III.] upon his return from Loch-
lin, after the death of Agandecca. Her passion
was so violent, that she followed him disguised
like a youth who wanted to be employed in his
wars. She was soon discovered by Hidallan, the
son of Lamor, one of Fingal's heroes, whose love
she had slighted some time before. Her romantic
passion and beauty recommended her so much to
the king, that he had resolved to make her his
wife; when news was brought him of Caracul's
expedition. He marched to stop the progress of
the enemy, and Comala attended him. He left
her on a hill, within sight of Caracul's army,
when he himself went to battle, having previ-
ously promised, if he survived, to return that
night.' The sequel of the story may be gathered
from the poem itself.]

THE PERSONS.
FINGAL. MELILCOMA, } Daughters

HIDALLAN. DERSAGRENA, \ of Morni,
COMALA. BARDS.

Dersagreiia.
THE chase is over. No noise on Ardven but the
torrent's roar ! Daughter of Morni, come from

COMALA. 185

Crona's banks. Lay down the bow and take the
harp. Let the night come on with songs, let our
joy be great on Ardven.

Melilcoma. Night comes apace, thou blue-eyed
maid ! gray night grows dim along the plain. I saw
a deer at Crona's stream ; a mossy bank he seemed
through the gloom, but soon he bounded away. A
meteor played round his branching horns ! the awful
faces of other times looked from the clouds of
Crona.

Dersagrena. These are the signs of Fingal's
death. The king of shields is fallen ! and Caracul
prevails. Rise, Comala, from thy rock ; daughter
of Sarno, rise in tears ! The youth of thy love is
low ; his ghost is on our hills.

Melilcoma. There Comala sits forlorn ! two
gray dogs near shake their rough ears, and catch
the flying breeze. Her red cheek rests upon her
arm, the mountain wind is in her hair. She turns
her blue eyes towards the fields of his promise.
Where art thou, O Fingal ? the night is gathering
around.

Comala. O Carun of the streams ! why do I be-
hold thy waters rolling in blood ? Has the noise of
the battle been heard ; and sleeps the king of Mor-
ven ? Rise, moon, thou daughter of the sky ! look
from between thy clouds ; rise, that I may behold
the gleam of his steel on the field of his promise.
Or rather let the meteor, that lights our fathers
through the night, come, with its red beam, to show
me the way to my fallen hero. Who will defend
me from sorrow ? Who from the love of Hidal-
laa ? Long shall Comala look before she can be-
hold Fingal in the midst of his host; bright as the
coming forth of the morning in the cloud of an
early shower.

Hidallan. Dwell, thou mist of gloomy Crona,
dwell on the path of the king ! Hide his steps from
mine eyes; let me remember my friend no more.
The bands of batt'e are scattered ; no crowding
tread is round the noise of his steel. O Carun !
roll thy streams of blood ; the chief of the people
is low.

Comala. Who fell en Carun's sounding banks,

186 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

son of the cloudy night ? Was he white as the snow
of Ardven ? Blooming as the bow of the shower ?
Was his hair like the mist of the hill, soft and curl-
ing in the day of the sun ? Was he like the thunder
of heaven in battle ? Fleet as the roe of the desert ?
Hidallan. O that I might behold his love, fair-
leaning from her rock ! Her red eye dim in tears,
her blushing cheek half hid in her locks! Blow,
O gentle breeze ! lift thou the heavy locks of the
maid, that I may behold her white arm, her lovely-
cheek in her grief.

Comala. And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief
of the mournful tale ? The thunder rolls on the
hill ! The lightning flies on wings of fire ! They
frighten not Comala; for Fingal is low. Say, chief
of the mournful tale, fell the breaker of the shields ?

Hidallan. The nations are scattered on their
hills ! they shall hear the voice of the king no more.

Comala. Confusion pursue thee over thy plains !
Ruin overtake thee, thou king of the world ! Few
be thy steps to thy grave; and let one virgin
mourn thee ! Let her be like Comala, tearful in
the days of her youth ! Why hast thou told me,
Hidallan, that my hero fell ! I might have hoped
a little while his return; I might have thought I
saw him on the distant rock ; a tree might have
deceived me with his appearance; the wind of the
hill might have been the sound of his horn in mine
ear. O that I were on the banks of Carun ! that
my tears might be warm on his cheek !

Hidallan. He lies not on the banks of Carun:
on Ardven heroes raise his tomb. Look on them,

0 moon ! from thy clouds; be thy beam blight on
his breast, that Comala may behold him in the
light of his armour.

Comala. Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I
behold my love! He left me at the chase alone.

1 knew not that he went to war. He said he
would return with the night; the king of Morven
is returned ! Why didst thou not tell me that he
would fall, O trembling dweller of the rock * !

• By the * dweller of the rock' she means a Druid.

CO MA LA. 187

Thou sawest him in the blood of his youth ; but
thou didst not tell Comala.

Melilcoma. What sound is that on Ardven ? Who
is that bright in the vale ? Who comes like the
strength of rivers, when their crowded waters glitter
to the moon ?

Comala. Who is it but the foe of Comala, the son
of the king of the world! Ghost of Fingal ! do thou,
from thy cloud, direct Comala's bow. Let him fall
like the hart of the desert. It is Fingal in the crowd
ofhisghosls. Why dost thou come, my love, to
frighten and please my soul ?

Fingal. Raise, ye banis, the song; raise the
wars of the streamy Carun ! Caracul has fled from
our arms along the fields of his pride. He sets far
distant like a meteor, that encloses a spirit of night,
when the winds drive it over the heath, and the
dark woods are gleaming around. I heard a voice,
or was it the breeze of my hills ? Is it the huntress
of Ardven, the white-handed daughter of Sarno ?
Look from thy rocks, my love; let me hear the
voice of Comala !

Comala. Take me to the cave of thy rest, O
lovely son of death !

Fingal. Come to the cave of my rest. The storm
is past, the sun is on our fields. Come to the cave
of my rest, huntress of echoing Ardven !

Comala. He is returned with his fame! I feel
the right hand of his wars ! But I must rest beside
the rock till my soul returns from my fear ! O let
the harp be near ! raise the song, ye daughters of
Morni.

Dcrsagrena. Comala has slain three deer on
Ardven; the fire ascends on the rock; go to the
feast of Comala, king of the woody Morven !

Fingal. Raise, ye sons of song, the wars of the
streamy Carun ; that my white-handed maid may
rejoice : while I behold the feast of my love.

Bards. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy ; the sons
of battle are fled ! The steed is not seen on our
fields ; the wings of their pride spread in other
lands. The sun will now rise in peace, and the
shadows descend in joy. The voice of the chase

188 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

will be heard ; the shields hang in the hall. Our
delight will be in the war of the ocean, our hands
shall grow red in the blood of Lochlin. Roll,
streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle fled!

Melilcoma. Descend, ye light mists from high !
Ye moonbeams, lift her soul ! Pale lies the maid
at the rock ! Comala is no more !

Fingal. Is the daughter of Sarno dead ; the white-
bosomed maid of my love ? Meet me, Comala, on my
heaths, when I sit alone at the streams of my hills.

Hidallan. Ceased the voice of the huntress of
Ardven ? Why did I trouble the soul of the maid ?
When shall I see thee, with joy, in the chase of the
dark-brown hinds ?

Fingal. Youth of the gloomy brow ! no more
shalt thou feast in my halls. Thou shalt not pursue
my chase, my foes shall not fall by thy sword. Lead
me to the place of her rest, that I may behold her
beauty. Pale she lies at the rock, the cold winds
lift her hair. Her bow-string sounds in the blast,
her arrow was broken in her fall. Raise the praise
of the daughter of Sarno ! give her name to the
winds of heaven.

Bards. See ! meteors gleam around the maid !
See ! moonbeams lift her soul ! Around her, from
their clouds, bend the awful faces of her fathers ;
Sarno of the gloomy brow ! the red-rolling eyes of
Fidallan ! When shall thy white hand arise ? When
shall thy voice be heard on our rocks ? The maids
shall seek thee on the heath, but they shall not find
thee. Thou shalt come, at times, to their dreams, to
settle peace in their soul. Thy voice shall remain
in their ears; they shall think with joy on the
dreams of their rest. Meteors gleam around the
maid, and moonbeams lift her soul !

CARRIC-THURA.

[Fingal, returning from an expedition which he had
made into the Roman province, resolved to visit
Cathulla, king of Inistore, and brother to Comala,
whose story is related at large in the preceding
dramatic poem. Upon his coming in sight of
Carric-thura, the palace of Cathulla, he observed
a flame on its top, which, in those days, was a
signal of distress. The wind drove him into a
bay, at some distance from Carric-thura, and he
was obliged to pass the night on the shore. Next
day he attacked the army of Frothal, king of
Sora, who had besieged Cathulla in his palace of
Carric-thura, and took Frothal himself prisoner,
after he had engaged him in a single combat. The
deliverance of Carric-thura is the subject of the
poem ; but several other episodes are interwoven
with it. It appears, from tradition, that this
poem was addressed to a Culdee, or one of the
first Christian missionaries, and that the story
of the spirit of Loda, supposed to be the ancient
Odin of Scandinavia, was introduced by Ossian
in opposition to the Culdee's doctrine. Be this
as it will, it lets us into Ossian's notions of a su-
perior Being ; and shows that he was not addicted
to the superstition which prevailed all the world
over, before the introduction of Christianity.]

HAST thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-
haired son of the sky ! The west has opened its
gates ; the bed of thy repose is there. The waves
come to behold thy beauty. They lift their trem-
bling heads. They see thee lovely in thy sleep ; they
shrink away with fear. Rest, in thy shadowy cave,
O sun ! let thy return be in joy.

But let a thousand lights arise to the sound of the
harps of Selma : let the beam spread in the hall, the
king of shells is returned ! The strife of Crona is

190 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

past, like sounds that are no more. Raise the song,

O bards ! the king is returned with his fame !

Such were the words of Ullin, when Fingal re-
turned from war: when he returned in the fair
blushing of youth with all his heavy locks. His
blue arms were on the hero ; like a light cloud on
the sun, when he moves in his robes of mist, and
shows but half his beams. His heroes followed the
king: the feast of shells is spread. Fingal turns to
his bards, and bids the song to rise.

Voices of echoing Cona ! he said ; O bards of
other times ! Ye, on whose souls the blue hosts of
our fathers rise ! strike the harp in my hall ; and let
me hear the song. Pleasant is the joy of grief; it is
like the shower of spring when it softens the branch
of the oak, and the young leaf rears its green head.
Sing on, O bards! to-morrow we lift the sail. My
blue course is through the ocean, to Carric-thura's
walls; the mossy walls of Sarno, where Comala
dwelt. There the noble Cathulla spreads the feast
of shells. The boars of his woods are many; the
sound of the chase shall arise !

Cronnan, son of the song ! said Ullin ; Minona,
graceful at the harp ! raise the tale of Shilric, to
please the king of Morven. Let Vinvela come in
her beauty, like the showery bow, when it shows
its lovely head on the lake, and the setting sun is
bright. She comes, O Fingal ! her voice is soft but
sad.

Vinvela. My love is a son of the hill. He pur-
sues the flying deer. His gray dogs are panting
around him ; his bow-string sounds in the wind.
Dost thou rest by the fount of the rock, or by the
noise of the mountain-stream ? The rushes are
nodding to the wind, the mist flies over the hill. I
will approach my love unseen; I will behold him
from the roek. Lovely 1 saw thee first by the aged
oak of Branno ; thou wert returning tall from the
chase ; the fairest among thy friends.

Shilric. What voice is that I hear? that voice
like the summer wind ! I sit not by the nodding
rushes ! I hear not the fount of the rock. Afar,
Vinvela, afar.. I go to the wars of Fingal. My dogs

CARRIC-THURA- 191

attend me no more. No more I tread the hill.
No more from on high I see thee, fair moving by
the stream of the plain; bright as the bow of hea-
ven ; as the moon on the western wave.

Vinvtla. Then thou art gone, O Shilric1 I am
alone on the hill ! The deer are seen on the brow :
void of fear they graze along. No more they dread
the wind ; no more the rustling tree. The hunter
is far removed ; he is in the field of graves. Stran-
gers ! sons of the waves ! spare my lovely Shilric !

Shilric. If fall I must in the field, raise high my
grave, Vinvela. Gray stones, and heaped-up earth,
shall mark me to future times. When the hunter
shall sit by the mound, and produce his food at
noon, * Some warrior rests here,' he will say; and
my fame shall live in his praise. Remember me,
Vinvela, when low on earth I lie !

Vinvela. Yes! I will remember thee! alas! my
Shilric will fall ! What shall I do, my love ! when
thou art for ever gone ? Through these hills I
will go at noon : I will go through the silent heath.
There I will see the place of thy rest, returning
from the chase. Alas ! my Shilric will fall ; but I
will remember Shilric.

And I remember the chief, said the king of woody
Morven; he consumed the battle in his rage. But
now my eyes behold him not. I met him, one day,
on the hill ; his cheek was pale ; his brow was dark.
The sigh was frequent in his breast : his steps were
towards the desert. But now he is not in the crowd
of my chiefs, when the sounds of my shields arise.
Dwells he in the narrow house *, the chief of high
Carmora ?

Cronnan ! said Ullin of other times, raise the
song of Shilric ! when he returned to his hills, and
Vinvela was no more. He leaned on her gray
mossy stone; he thought Vinvela lived. He saw
her fair moving on the plain ; but the bright form
lasted not : the sunbeam fled from the field, and
she was seen no more. Hear the song of Shilric ;
it is soft, but sad !

• The grave.

192 THE POEMS OF OSS IAN.

I sit by the mossy fountain, on the top of the
hill of winds. One tree is rustling above me. Dark
waves roll over the heath. The lake is troubled
below. The deer descend from the hill. No hunter
at a distance is seen. It is mid-day : but all is silent.
Sad are my thoughts alone. Didst thou but appear,

0 my love ! a wanderer on the heath ! thy hair float-
ing on the wind behind thee ; thy bosom heaving
on the sight ; thine eyes full of tears for thy friends,
whom the mists of the hill had concealed ! Thee

1 would comfort, my love, and bring thee to thy
father's house !

But is it she that there appears, like a beam of
light on the heath ? bright as the moon in autumn,
as the sun in a summer-storm, comest thou, O maid,
over rocks, over mountains, to me ? She speaks :
but how weak her voice ! like the breeze in the
reeds of the lake.

• Returnest thou safe from the war ? Where are
thy friends, my love ? I heard of thy death on the
hill; I heard and mourned thee, Shilric! Yes, my
fair, I return ; but I alone of my race. Thou shalt
see them no more: their graves I raised on the
plain. But why art thou on the desert hill ? Why
on the heath alone ?

' Alone I am, O Shilric ! alone in the winter-
house. With grief for thee I fell. Shilric, I am pale
in the tomb.'

She fleets, she sails away : as mist before the
wind ! and wilt thou not stay, Vinvela? Stay and
behold my tears ! Fair thou appearest, Vinvela !
fair thou wast when alive !

By the mossy fountain I will sit; on the top of
the hills of winds. When mid-day is silent around,
O talk with me, Vinvela! come on the light-winged
gale ! on the breeze of the desert, come ! Let me
hear thy voice, as thou passest, when mid-day is
silent around !

Such was the song of Cronnan, on the night of
Selma's joy. But morning rose in the east; the
blue waters rolled in light. Fingal bade his sails
to rise; the winds came rustling from their hills.
Inistore rose to sight, and Carric-thura's mossy

CARRIC-THURA. 193

towers ! But the sign of distress was on their top :
the warning flame edged with smoke. The king of
Morven struck his breast : he assumed at once his
spear. His darkened brow bends forward to the
coast: he looks back to the lagging winds. His
hair is disordered on his back. The silence of the
king is terrible !

Night came down on the sea; Rotha's bay re-
ceived the ship. A rock bends along the coast with
all its echoing wood. On the top is the circle of
Loda, the mossy stone of power ! A narrow plain
spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged trees,
which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn
from their shaggy rock. The blue course of a
stream is there ! the lonely blast of ocean pursues
the thistle's beard. The flame of three oaks arose ;
the feast is spread around ; but the soul of the king
is sad, for Carric-thura's chief distrest.

The wan cold moon rose in the east. Sleep de-
scended on the youths ! Their blue helmets glitter
to the beam ; the fading fire decays. But sleep did
not rest on the king : he rose in the midst of his
arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to behold the
flame of Starno's tower.

The flame was dim and distant ; the moon hid her
red face in the east. A blast came from the moun-
tain, on its wings was the spirit of Loda. He came
to his place in his terrors, and shook his dusky
spear. His eyes appear like flames in his dark face ;
his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal advanced
his spear in night, and raised his voice on high.

Son of night, retire : call thy winds, and fly ! Why
dost thou come to my presence with thy shadowy
arms ? Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of dismal
Loda ? Weak is thy shield of clouds : feeble is that
meteor, thy sword ! The blast rolls them together ;
and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my presence,
son of night ! call thy winds and fly !

Dost thou force me from my place ? replied the
hollow voice. The people bend before me. I turn
the battle in the field of the brave. I look on the
nations, and they vanish : my nostrils pour the
blast of death. I come abroad on the winds; the
K

194 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is
calm, above the clouds : the fields of ray rest are
pleasant.

Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king : Let
Comhal's son be forgot. Do my steps ascend from
my hills into thy peaceful plains ? Do I meet thee
with a spear on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda ?
Why then dost thou frown on me ? why shake thine
airy spear ? Thou frownest in vain : I never fled
from the mighty in war. And shall the sons of the
wind frighten the king of Morven ? No : he knows
the weakness of their arms !

Fly to thy land, replied the form : receive thy
wind, and fly ! The blasts are in the hollow of my
hand : the course of the storm is mine. The king
of Sora is my son, he bends at the stone of my
power. His battle is around Carric-thura ; and he
will prevail ! Fly to thy land, son of Comhal, or
feel my flaming wrath !

He lifted high his shadowy spear ! He bent for-
ward his dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew
his sword ; the blade of dark-brown Luno. The
gleaming path of the steel winds through the gloomy
ghost. The form fell shapeless into air, like a co-
lumn of smoke, which the staff of the boy disturbs
as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace.

The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into him-
self, he rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the
sound. The waves heard it on the deep. They
stopped in their course with fear; the friends of
Fingal started at once, and took their heavy spears.
They missed the king : they rose in rage ; all their
arms resound !

The moon came forth in" the east. Fingal re-
turned in the gleam of his arms. The joy of his
youth was great, their souls settled as a sea from a
storm. Ullin raised the song of gladness. The hills
of Inistore rejoiced. The flame of the oak arose ;
and the tales of heroes are told.

But Frothal, Sora's wrathful king, sits in sadness
beneath a tree. The host spreads around Carric-
thura. He looks towards the walls with rage. He
longs for the blood of Cathulla, who once over-

CARRIC-THURA. 195

came him in war. When Annir reigned in Sora, the
father of sea-borne Frothal, a storm arose on the
sea, and carried Frothal to Inistore. Three days he
feasted in Sarno's halls, and saw the slow-rolling
eyes of Comala. He loved her in the flame of
youth, and rushed to seize the white-armed maid.
Cathulla met the chief. The gloomy battle rose.
Frothal was bound in the hall; three days he pined
alone. On the fourth Sarno sent him to his ship,
and he returned to his land. But wrath darkened
in his soul against the noble Cathulla. When
Annir's stone of fame arose, Frothal came in his
strength. The battle burned round Carric-thura
and Sarno's mossy walls.

Morning rose on Inistore. Frothal struck his
dark brown shield. His chiefs started at the sound ;
they stood, but their eyes were turned to the sea.
They saw Fingal coming in his strength ; and first
the noble Thubar spoke. : Who comes like the stag
of the desert, with all his herd behind him ?
Frothal, it is a foe! I see his forward spear. Per-
haps it is the king of Morven, Fingal, the first of
men. His deeds are well known in Lochlin ! the
blood of his foes is in Starno's halls. Shall I ask
the peace of kings ? His sword is the bolt of
heaven !*

Son of the feeble hand, said Frothal, shall my
days begin in a cloud ? Shall I yield before I have
conquered, chief of streamy Tora ? The people
would say in Sora, Frothal flew forth like a me-
teor; but a darkness has met him, and his fame is
no more. No, Thubar, I will never yield; my fame
shall surround me like light. No: I will never
yield, chief of streamy Tora !

He went forth with the stream of his people, but
they met a reek: Fingal stood unmoved, broken
they rolled back from his side. Nor did they safely
fly; the spear of the king pursued their steps. The
field is covered with heroes. A rising hill preserved
the foe.

Frothal saw their flight. The rage of his bosom
rose. He bent his eyes to the ground, and called

196 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

the noble Thubar. Thubar ! my people are rial.
My fame has ceased to arise. I will fight the king ;
I feel my burning soul ! Send a bard to demand
the combat. Speak not against Frothal's words !
But, Thubar! I love a maid; she dwells by Thano's
stream, the white-bosomed daughter of Herman,
Utha, with soft-rolling eyes. She feared the low-
laid Comala; her secret sighs rose when I spread
the sail. Tell to Utha of harps that my soul de-
lighted in her.

Such were his words, resolved to fight. The soft
sigh of Utha was near ! She had followed her hero
in the armour of a man. She rolled her eye on the
youth, in secret, from beneath her steel. She saw
the bard as he went; the spear fell thrice from her
hand ! Her loose hair flew on the wind. Her white
breast rose with sighs. She raised her eyes to the
king. She would speak, but thrice she failed.

Fingal heard the words of the bard ; he came in
the strength of his steel. They mixed their death-
ful spears : they raised the gleam of their arms. But
the sword of Fingal descended and cut Frothal's
shield in twain. His fair side is exposed ; half bent
he foresees his death. Darkness gathered on Utha's
soul. The tear rolled down her cheek. She rushed
to cover the chief with her shield ; but a fallen oak
met her steps. She fell on her arm of snow ; her
shield, her helmet, flew wide. Her white bosom
heaved to the sight ; her dark-brown hair is spread
on earth.

Fingal pitied the white-armed maid ! he stayed
the uplifted sword. The tear was in the eye of the
king, as, bending forward, he spoke. * King of
streamy Sora ! fear not the sword of Fingal. It was
never stained with the blood of the vanquished; it
never pierced a fallen foe. Let thy people rejoice
by the native streams. Let the maid of thy love be
glad. Why shouldest thou fall in thy youth, king
of streamy Sora ? Frothal heard the words of Fin-
gal, and saw the rising maid : they * stood in silence

* Frothal and Utha.

CARRIC-THURA. 197

in their beauty : like two young trees of the plain,
when the shower of spring is on their leaves, and
the loud winds are laid.

Daughter of Herman, said Frothal, didst thou
come from Tora's streams ; didst thou come in thy
beauty to behold thy warrior low ? But he was low
before the mighty, maid of the slow-rolling eye '
The feeble did not overcome the son of car-bojne
Annir ! Terrible art thou, O king of Morven ! in
battles of the spear. But, in peace, thou art like
the sun, when he looks through a silent shower :
the flowers lift their fair heads before him ; the
gales shake their rustling wings. O that thou wert
in Sora ! that my feast were spread ! The future
kings of Sora would see thy arms and rejoice.
They would rejoice at the fame of their fathers, who
beheld the mighty Fingal !

Son of Annir, replied the king, the fame of Sora's
race shall be heard ! When chiefs are strong in war,
then does the song arise ? But if their swords are
stretched over the feeble ; if the blood of the weak
has stained their arms ; the bard shall forget them
in the song, and their tombs shall not be known.
The stranger shall come and build there, and re-
move the heaped-up earth. An half-worn sword
shall rise before him ; bending above it, he will say,
' These are the arms of the chiefs of old, but their
names are not in song.' Come thou; O Frothal !
to the feast of Inistore; let the maid of thy love be
there; let our faces brighten with joy !

Fingal took his spear, moving in the steps of his
might. The gates of Carric-thura are opened wide.
The feast of shells is spread. The soft sound of
music arose. Gladness brightened in the hall. The
voice of Ullin was heard ; the harp of Selma was
strung. Utha rejoiced in his presence, and de-
manded the song of grief; the big tear hung in her
eye when the soft Crimora spoke — Crimora the
daughter of Rinval, who dwelt at Lotha's roaring
stream ! The tale was long, but lovely ; and pleased
the blushing Utha.

Crimora. Who cometh from the hill, like a cloud
tinged with the beam of the west ? Whose voice is

198 THE POEMS OFOSSIAN.

that, loud as the wind, but pleasant as the harp of
Carril? It is my love in the light of steel; but sad
is his darkened brow ! Live the mighty race of
Fingal ? or what darkens Connal's soul ?

Conned. They live. They return from the chase
like a stream of light. The sun is on their shields.
Like a ridge of fire they descend the hill. Loud is
the voice of the youth ! the war, my love, is near !
To-morrow the dreadful Dargo comes to try the
force of our race. The race of Fingal he defies ;
the race of battle and wounds !

Crimora. Connal, I saw his sails like gray mist
on the dark-brown wave. They slowly came to land.
Connal, many are the warriors of Dargo !

Connal. Bring me thy father's shield, the bossy
iron shield of Rinval ! that shield like the full-
orbed moon when she moves darkened through
heaven.

Crimora. That shield I bring, O Connal ! but it
did not defend my father. By the spear of Gormar
he fell. Thou may'st fall, O Connal !

Connal. Fall I may ! but raise my tomb, Cri-
mora ! Gray stones, a mound of earth, shall send
my name to other times. Bend thy red eye over my
grave, beat thy mournful heaving breast. Though
fair thou art, my love, as the light; more pleasant
than the gale of the hill ; yet I will not here remain.
Raise my tomb, Crimora!

Crimora. Then give me those arms that gleam ;
that sword and that spear of steel. I shall meet
Dargo with Connal, and aid him in the fight. Fare-
well, ye rocks of Ardven ! ye deer ! and ye streams
of the hill ! We shall return no more. Our tombs
are distant far !

' And did they return no more ?' said Utha's
bursting sigh. « Fell the mighty in battle, and did
Crimora live ? Her steps were lonely ; her soul was
sad for Connal. Was he not young and lovely;
like the beam of the setting sun ?' Ullin saw the
virgin's tear; he took the softly-trembling harp:
the song was lovely, but sad, and silence was in
Carrfc-thura.

Autumn is dark on the mountains; gray mist

CARRIC-THURA. 199

vests on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the
heath. Dark rolls the river through the narrow
plain. A tree stands alone on the hill, and marks
the slumbering Connal. The leaves whirl round
with the wind, and strew the grave of the dead. At
times are seen here the ghosts of the departed,
when the musing hunter alone stalks slowly over
the heath.

Who can reach the source of thy race, O Connal !
who recount thy fathers ? Thy family grew like an
oak on the mountain, which meeteth the wind with
its lofty head. But now it is torn from the earth.
Who shall supply the place of Connal ? Here was
the din of arms; here the groans of the dying.
Bloody are the wars of Fingal, O Connal ! it was
here thou didst fall. Thine arm was like a storm ;
thy sword a beam of the sky ; thy height a rock on
the plain ; thine eyes a furnace of fire. Louder
than a storm was thy voice in the battles of thy
steel. Warriors fell by thy sword, as the thistle
by the staff of a boy. Dargo the mighty came on,
darkened in his rage. His brows were gathered
into wrath. His eyes like two caves in a rock.
Bright rose their swords on each side ; loud was the
clang of their steel.

The daughter of Rinval was near ; Crimora bright
in the armour of man ; her yellow hair is loose be-
hind, her bow is in her hand. She followed the
youth to the war, Connal her much-beloved. She
drew the string on Dargo ; but erring she pierced
her Connal. He falls like an oak on the plain ; like
a rock from the shaggy hill. What shall she do,
hapless maid ! He bleeds ; her Connal dies ! All the
night long she cries, and all the day, « O Connal,
my love, and my friend.' With grief the sad
mourner dies ! Earth here encloses the loveliest
pair on the hill. The grass grows between the
stones of the tomb; I often sit in the mournful
shade. The wind sighs through the grass; their
memory rushes on my mind. Undisturbed you now
sleep together ; in the tomb of the mountain you
yest alone !

And soft be their rest, said Utha, hapless childrea

200 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

of streamy Lotha ! I will remember them with tears,
and my secret song shall rise ; when the wind is in
the groves of Tora, when the stream is roaring
near. Then shall they come on my soul, with all
their lovely grief !

Three days feasted the kings : on the fourth their
white sails arose. The winds of the north drove
Fingal to Morven's woody land. But the spirit of
Loda sat in his cloud behind the ships of Frothal.
He hung forward with all his blasts, and spread
the white-bosomed sails. The wounds of his form
were not forgotten ! he still feared the hand of the
king!

CARTHON.

[This poem is complete, and the subject of it, as of
most of Ossian's compositions, tragical. In the
time of Comhal, the son of Trathal, and father of
the celebrated Fingal, Clessammor, the son of
Thaddu and brother of Morna, Fingal's mother,
was driven by a storm into the river Clyde, on the
banks of which stood Balclutha, a town belong-
ing to the Britons between the walls. He was
hospitably received by Reuthamir, the principal
man in the place, who gave him Moina his only
daughter in marriage. Reuda, the son of Cormo,
a Briton, who was in love with Moina, came to
Reuthàmir's house, and behaved haughtily to-
wards Clessammor. A quarrel ensued, in which
Reuda was killed; the Britons, who attended
him, pressed so hard on Clessammor, that he was
obliged to throw himself into the Clyde, and
swim to his ship. He hoisted sail, and the wind
being favourable, bore him out to sea. He often
endeavoured to return, and carry off his beloved
Moina by night; but the wind continuing con-
trary, he was forced to desist.

Moina, who had been left with child by her husband,
brought forth a son, and d ied soon after. Reutha-
mir named the child Carthon, ■ e. ' the murmur
of waves,' from the storm which carried off Cles-
sammor his father, who was supposed to have been
cast away. When Carthon was three years old,
Comhal, the father of Fingal, in one of his expedi-
tions against the Britons, took and burnt Balclu-
tha. Reuthamir was killed in the attack: and
Carthon was carried safe away by his nurse, who
fled farther into the country of the*Britons. Car-
thon, coming to man's estate, was resolved to re-
venge the fall of Balclutha on Comhal's posterity.
K 2

202 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

He sets sail from the Clyde, and falling on the
coast of Morven, defeated two of Fingal's heroes
who came to oppose his progress.. He was, at
last, unwittingly killed by his father Clessammor,
in a single combat. This story is the foundation
of the present poem, which opens on the night pre-
ceding the death of Carthon, so that what passed
before is introduced by way of episode. The poem
is addressed to Malvina the daughter of Toscar.]

A TALE of the times of old ! The deeds of days
of other years !

The murmur of thy streams, O Lota ! brings back
the memory of the past. The sound of thy woods,
Garmallar, is lovely in mine ear. Dost thou not
hold, Malvina, a rock with its head of heath ! Three
aged pines bend from its face; green is the narrow
plain at its feet; there the flower of the mountain
grows, and shakes its white head in the breeze. The
thistle is there alone, shedding its aged beard. Two
stones, half sunk in the ground, show their heads
of moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the
place, for he beholds a dim ghost standing there.
The mighty lie, O Malvina ! in the narrow plain of
the rock.

A tale of the times of old ! The deeds of days of
other years !

Who comes from the land of strangers, with his
thousands around him ? the sunbeam pours its
bright stream before him ; his hair meets the wind
of his hills. His face is settled from war. He is
calm as the evening beam that looks from the cloud
of the west on Cona's silent vale. Who is it but
Comhal'sson, thekingof mighty deeds ! Hebeholds
the hills with joy, he bids a thousand voices rise.
' Ye have fled over your fields, ye sons of the di-
stant land ! The king of the world sits in his hall,
and hears of his people's flight. He lifts his red
eye of pride; he takes his father's sword. Ye have
fled over your fields, sons of the distant land !'

Such were the words of the bards, when they
came to Selma's halls. A thousand lights from the

CARTHON. 203

strangers' land rose in the midst of his people. The
feast is spread around ; the night passed away in
joy. Where is the noble Clessammor? said the fair-
haired Fingal. Where is the brother of Morna, in the
hour of my joy? Sullen and dark he passes his
days in the vale of echoing Lora : but, behold, he
comes from the hill, like a steed in his strength,
who finds his companions in the breeze, and tosses
his bright mane in the wind. Blest be the soul of
Clessammor, why so long from Selma?

Returns the chief, said Clessammor, in the midst
of his fame ? Such was the renown of Comhal in
the battles of his youth. Often did we pass over
Carun to the land of the strangers : our swords re-
turned, not unstained with blood: nor did the kings
of the world rejoice. Why do I remember the
times of our war ? My hair is mixed with gray. My
hand forgets to bend the bow : I lift a lighter spear.
O that my joy would return, as when I first beheld
the maid; the white-bosomed daughter of strangers,
Moina, with the dark-blue eyes !

Tell, said the mighty Fingal, the tale of thy
youthful days. Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun,
shades the soul of Clessammor. Mournful are thy
thoughts, alone, on the banks of the roaring Lora.
Let us hear the sorrow of thy youth and the dark-
ness of thy days !

' It was in the days of peace,' replied the great
Clessammor, ' I came in my bounding ship to
Balclutha's walls of towers. The winds had roared
behind my sails, and Clutha's streams received my
dark-bosomed ship. Three days I remained in
Reuthàmir's halls, and saw his daughter, that beam
of light. The joy of the shell went round, and the
aged hero gave the fair. Her breasts were like
foam on the wave, and her eyes like stars of light :
her hair was dark as the raven's wing : her soul
was generous and mild. My love for Moina was
great; my heart poured forth in joy.

* The son of a stranger came; a chief who loved
the white-bosomed Moina. His words were mighty
in the hall; he often half-unsheathed his sword.
* Where,' said he, ' is the mighty Comhal, the rest-

204 THE POEMS OF OSSIANT.

less wanderer of the heath? Comes he, with his
host, to Balclutha, since Clessàminor is so bold?'
My soul, I replied, O warrior! burns in a light of
its own. I stand without fear in the midst of thou-
sands, though the valiant are distant far. Stranger!
thy words are mighty, for Clessàmmor is alone.
But my sword trembles by my side, and longs to
glitter in my hand. Speak no more of Comhal, son
of the winding Clutha !

• The strength of his pride arose. We fought ;
he fell beneath my sword. The banks of Clutha
heard his fall ; a thousand spears glittered around.
I fought: the strangers prevailed: I plunged into
the stream of Clutha. My white sails rose over the
waves, and I bounded on the dark-blue sea. Moina
came to the shore, and rolled the eye of her tears ;
her loose hair flew on the wind ; and I heard her
mournful distant cries. Often did I turn my ship;
but the winds of the east prevailed. Nor Clutha
ever since have I seen, nor Moina of the dark-brown
hair. She fell in Balclutha, for I have seen her
ghost. I knew her as she came through the dusky
night, along the murmur of Lora : she was like the
new moon, seen through the gathered mist : when
the sky pours down its flaky snow, and the world
is silent and dark.'

Raise, ye bards, said the mighty Fingal, the
praise of unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, with
your songs, to our hills, that she may rest with the
fair of Morven, the sunbeams of other days, the
delight of heroes of old. I have seen the walls of
Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had
resounded in the halls : and the voice of the people
is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was re-
moved from its place by the fall of the walls. The
thistle shook there its lonely head : the moss whis-
tled to the wind. The fox looked out from the win-
dows, the rank grass of the wall waved round its
head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence
is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of
mourning, O bards ! over the land of strangers.
They have but fallen before us : for one day we
must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son of

CARTHON. '205

the winged days ? Thou lookest from thy towers
to-day : yet a few years, and the blast of the desert
comes ; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles
round thy half- worn shield. And let the blast of
the desert come ! we shall be renowned in our day !
The mark of my arm shall be in battle ; my name
in the song of bards. Raise the song, send round
the shell : let joy be heard in my hall. When thou,
son of heaven ! shalt fail, if thou shalt fail, thou
mighty light ! if thy brightness is for a season, like
Fingal ! our fame shall survive thy beams.

Such was the song of Fingal in the day of his joy.
His thousand bards leaned forward from their
seats to hear the voice of the king. It was like
the music of harps on the gale of the spring. Love-
ly were thy thoughts, O Fingal ! why had not Os-
sian the strength of thy soul ? But thou standest
alone, my father ! who can equal the king of
Selma ?

The night passed away in song ; morning re-
turned in joy. The mountains showed their gray
heads ; the blue face of ocean smiled. The white
wave is seen tumbling round the distant rock ; a
mist rose slowly from the lake. It came in the
figure of an aged man along the silent plain. Its
large limbs did not move in steps, for a ghost sup-
ported it in mid air. It came towards Selma'shall,
and dissolved in a shower of blood.

The king alone beheld the sight : he foresaw the
death of the people. He came in silence to his
hall, and took his father's spear. The mail rattled
on his breast. The heroes rose around. They
looked in silence on each other, marking the eyes
of Fingal. They saw battle in his face — the death
of armies on his spear. A thousand shields at
once are placed on their arms ; they drew a thou-
sand swords. The hall of Selma brightened around.
The clang of arms ascends. The gray dogs howl
in their place. No word is among the mighty
chiefs. Each marked the eyes of the king, and
half-assumed his spear.

Sons of Morven, begun the king, this is no time
to fill the shell; the battle darkens near us, death

206 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

hovers over the land. Some ghost, the friend of
Fingal, has forewarned us of the foe. The sons of
the stranger come from the darkly-rolling sea ; for
from the water came the sign of Morven's gloomy
danger. Let each assume his heavy spear, each
gird on his father's sword. Let the dark helmet
rise on every head; the mail pour its lightning
from every side. The battle gathers like a storm;
soon shall ye hear the roar of death.

The hero moved on before his host, like a cloud
before a ridge of greeu fire, when it pours on the
sky of night, and mariners foresee a storm. On
Cona's rising heath they stood : the white-bosomed
maids beheld them above like a grove; they fore-
saw the death of the youth, and looked towards the
sea with fear. The white wave deceived them for
distant sails; the tear is on their cheek! The sun
rose on the sea, and we beheld a distant fleet. Like
the mist of ocean they came, and poured their
youth upon the coast. The chief was among them,
like the stag in the midst of the herd. His shield
is studded with gold ; stately strode the king of
spears. He moved towards Selma; his thousands
moved behind.

Go with a song of peace, said Fingal: go, Ullin,
to the king of swords. Tell him that we are mighty
in war; that the ghosts of our foes are many. But
renowned are they who have feasted in my halls;
they show the arms of my fathers in a foreign land ;
the sons of the strangers wonder, and bless the
friends of Morven's race; for our names have
been heard afar: the kings of the world shook in
the midst of their host.

Ullin went with his song. Fingal rested on his
spear: he saw the mighty foe in his armour: he
blest the stranger's son. ' How stately art thou,
son of the sea ! said the king of woody Morven.
Thy sword is a beam of fire by thy side: thy spear
is a pine that defies the storm. The varied face of
the moon is not broader than thy shield. Ruddy
is thy face of youth ! soft the ringlets of thy hair !
but this tree may fall, and his memory be forgot!
The daughter of the stranger will be sad, looking

CARTHON". 1:07

to the rolling sea: the children will jay, ' We see
a ship; perhaps it is the king of Baiclutha.' The
tear starts from their mother's eye : her thoughts
are of him who sleeps in Morven !'

Such were the words of the king, when Ullin
came to the mighty Carthon; he threw down the
spear before him, he raised the song of peace.
' Come to the feast of Fingal, Carthon, from the
rolling sea ! partake of the feast of the king, or
lift the spear of war ! The ghosts of our foes are
many; but renowned are the friends of Morven !
Behold that field, O Carthon ! many a green hill
rises there, with mossy stones and rustling grass :
these are the tombs of Fingal's foes, the sous of the
rolling sea !'

' Dost thou speak to the weak in arms !' said
Carthon, ' bard of the woody Morven ? Is my
face pale for fear, son of the peaceful song? Why
then dost thou think to darken my soul with the
tales of those who fell? My arm has fought in
battle; my renown is known afar. Go to the feeble
in arms, bid them yield to Fingal. Have not I seen
the fallen Baiclutha ? And shall I feast with Com-
hal's son — Comhal, who threw his fire in the midst
of my father's hall ? I was young, and knew not
the cause why the virgins wept. The columns of
smoke pleased mine eye when they rose above my
walls! I often looked back with gladness when my
friends fled along the hill. But when the years of
my youth came on, 1 beheld the moss of my fallen
walls. My sigh arose with the morning, and my
tears descended with night. Shall I not fight, I
said to my soul, against the children cf my foes ?
And I will fight, O bard ! I feel the strength of my
soul !

His people gathered around the hero, "and drew
at once their shining swords. He stands in the
midst, like a pillar of fiie, the tear half-starting
from his eye, for he thought of the fallen Baiclu-
tha. The crowded pride cf his soul arose. Side-
long he looked up to the hill, where our heroes
shone in arms : the spear trembled in his hand.
Bending forward, he seemed to threaten the king.

208 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Shall I, said Fingal to his soul, meet at once the
youth ? Shall I stop him in the midst of his course,
before his fame shall arise ? But the bard hereafter
may say, when he sees the tomb of Carthon, Fingal
took his thousands to battle before the noble Car-
thon fell. No : bard of the times to come, thou
shalt not lessen FingaFs fame ! my heroes will fight
the youth, and Fingal behold the war. If he over-
comes, I rush, in my strength, like the roaring
stream of Cona. Who of my chiefs will meet the
son of the rolling sea ? Many are his warriors on
the coast, and strong is his ashen spear !

Cathul rose in his strength, the son of the mighty
Lormar : three hundred youths attend the chief,
the race of his native streams. Feeble was his
arm against Carthon: he fell, and his heroes fled.
C'onnal resumed the battle, but he broke his heavy
spear: he lay bound on the field; Carthon pursued
his people.

Clessàmmor, said the king of Morven, where is
the spear of thy strength ? Wilt thou behold Con-
nal bound : thy friend at the stream of Lora ? Rise,
in the light of thy steel, companion of valiant Com-
hal ! let the youth of Balclutha feel the strength of
Morven's race. He rose in the strength of his steel,
shaking his grisly locks. He fitted the steel to his
side ; he rushed in the pride of valour.

Carthon stood on a rock : he saw the hero rush-
ing on. He loved the dreadful joy of his face:
his strength in the locks of age ! « Shall I lift that
spear,' he said, * that never strikes but once a foe ?
Or shall I, with the words of peace, preserve the
warrior's life ? Stately are his steps of age ! lovely
the remnant of his years ! Perhaps it is the husband
of Moina, the father of car-borne Carthon. Often
have I heard that he dwelt at the echoing stream of
Lora.'

Such were his words when Clessàmmor came,
and lifted high his spear. The youth received it
on his shield, and spoke the words of peace. • War-
rior of the aged locks ! is there no youth to lift the
spear ? Hast thou no son to raise the shield before
his father to meet the arm of youth ? Is the spouse

CARTHON. 209

of thy love no more ? or weeps she over the tombs
of thy sons ? Art thou of the kings of men ? What
will be the fame of my sword should'st thou fall ?'

It will be great, thou son of pride ! begun the
tall Clessàmmor. I have been renowned in battle,
but I never told my name to a foe *. Yield to me,
son of the wave, then shait thou know that the
mark of my sword is in many a field. * I never
yielded, king of spears !' replied the noble pride of
Carthon : « I have also fought in war, I behold my
future fame. Despise me not, thou chief of men i
my arm, my spear is strong. Retire among thy
friends ; let younger heroes fight.' Why dost thou
wound my soul ? replied Clessàmmor with a tear.
Age does not tremble on my hand ; I still can lift
the sword. Shall I fly in Fingal's sight, in the
sight of him I love ? Son of the sea ! I never fled :
exalt thy pointed spear.

They fought like two contending winds that
strive to roll the wave. Carthon bade his spear to
err : he still thought that the foe was the spouse of
Ivloina. He broke Clessàmmor's beamy spear in
twain : he seized his shining sword. But as Carthon
was binding the chief, the chief drew the dagger of
his fathers. He saw the foe's uncovered side, and
opened there a wound.

Fingal saw Clessàmmor low : he moved in the
sound of his steel. The host stood silent in his
presence : they turned their eyes to the king. He
came like the sullen noise of a storm before the
winds arise: the hunter hears it in the vale, and
retires to the cave of the rock. Carthon stood in
his place, the blood is rushing down his side : he
saw the coming down of the king, his hopes of fame

* To tell one's name to an enemy was reckoned
in those days of heroism a manifest evasion of
fighting him ; for if it was once known that friend-
ship subsisted of old between the ancestors of the
combatants, the battle immediately ceased, and the-
ancient amity of their forefathers was renewed. » A
man who tells his name to his enemy,' was of old
an ignominious term for a coward.

210 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

arose, but pale was his cheek : his hair flew loose,
his helmet shook on high : the force of Carthon
failed, but his soul was strong.

Fingal beheld the heio's blood: he stopt the up-
lifted spear. ' Yield, king of swords !' said Com-
hal's son, ' I behold thy blood ; thou hast been
mighty in battle, and thy fame shall never fade.
Art thou the king so far renowned? replied the car-
borne Carthon; art thou that light of death, that
frightens the kings of the world ? But why should
Carthon ask? for he is like the stream of his hills,
strong as a river in his course, swift as the eagle of
heaven. O that I had fought with the king, that
my fame might be great in song ! that the hunter,
beholding my tomb, might say he fought with the
mighty Fingal. But Carthon dies unknown : he has
poured out his force on the weak.

But thou shalt not die unknown, replied the king
of woody Morven : my bards are many, O Carthon !
Their songs descend to future times. The children
of years to come shall hear the fame of Carthon,
when they sit round the burning oak, and the night
is spent in songs of old. The hunter, sitting in the
heath, shall hear the rustling blast, and raising his
eyes, behold the rock where Carthon fell. He shall
turn to his son, and show the place where the
mighty fought: ' There the king of Balclutha
fought, like the strength of a thousand streams.'

Joy rose in Carthon's face : he lifted his heavy
eyes. He gave his sword to Fingal to lie within his
hall, that the memory of Balclutha's king might re-
main in Morven. The battle ceased along the field ;
the bard had sung the song of peace. The chiefs
gathered round the falling Carthon ; they heard his
words with sighs. Silent they leaned on their spears,
while Balclutha's hero spoke. His hair sighed in
the wind, and his voice was sad and low.

' King of Morven,' Carthon said, « I fall in the
midst of my course. A foreign tomb receives in
youth the last of Reuthàmir's race. Darkness
dwells in Balclutha : the shadows of grief in Crath-
mo. But raise my remembrance on the banks of
Lora, where my fathers dwelt. Perhaps the hus-

CARTHON. 2U

hand of Moina will mourn over his fallen Carthon.'
His words reached the heart of Clessàmmor: he
fell in silence on his son. The host stood darkened
around: no voice is on the plain. Night came : the
moon, from the east, looked on the mournful field;
but still they stood, like a silent grove that lifts its
head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid, and
dark autumn is on the plain.

Three days they mourned above Carthon; on the
fourth his father died. In the narrow plain of the
rock they lie; a dim ghost defends their tomb.
There lovely Moina is often seen, when the sun-
beam darts on the rock, and all around is dark.
There she is seen, Malvina; but not like the daugh-
ters of the hill. Her robes are from the stranger's
land, and she is still alone.

Fingal was sad for Carthon ; he commanded his
bards to mark the day when shadowy autumn re-
turned : and often did they mark the day and sing
the hero's praise. « Who comes so dark from
ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud ? Death
is trembling in his hand ! his eyes are flames of fire !
Who roars along dark Lora's heath ? Who but Car-
thon, king of swords ! The people fall ! see how he
strides like the sullen ghost of Morven ! But there
he lies a goodly oak, which sudden blasts over-
turned ! When shalt thou rise, Balclutha's joy ?
When, Carthon, shalt thou arise ? Who comes so
dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy
cloud ?' Such were the words of the bards in the
day of their mourning: Ossiau often joined their
voice, and added to their song. My soul has been
mournful for Carthon : he fell in the days of his
youth; and thou, O Clessàmmor ! where is thy
dwelling in the wind? Has the youth forgot his
wound ? Flies he on clouds with thee ? I feel the
sun, O Malvina ! leave me to my rest. Perhaps
they may come to my dreams ; I think I hear a feeble
voice ! The beam of heaven delights to shine on
the grave of Carthon : I feel it warm around !

O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of
my fathers ! Whence are thy beams, O sun ! thy
everlasting light ? Thou comest forth in thy awful

212 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the
moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave;
but thou thyself mo vest alone. Who can be a com-
panion of thy course ? The oaks of the mountains
fall; the mountains themselves decay with years;
the ocean shrinks and grows again ; the moon her-
self is lost in heaven: but thou art for ever the
same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.
When the world is dark with tempests, when thun-
der rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy
beauty from ihe clouds, and laughest at the storm.
But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds
thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows
on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gales
of the west. But thou art perhaps like me, for a sea-
son : thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep
in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning.
Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth!
age is dark and unlovely ; it is like the glimmering
light of the moon when it shines through broken
clouds, and the mist is on the hills ; the blast of
the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in
the midst of his journey.

OINA-MORUL.

[After an address to Malvina, the daughter of Tos-
car, Ossian proceeds to relate his own expedition
to Fimrfed, an island of Scandinavia. Mal-or-
chol, king of Fuiirfed, being hard pressed in war
by Ton-thormod, chief of Sar-dronlo (who had
demanded in vain the daughter of Mal-orchol in
marriage), Fingal sent Ossian to his aid. Ossian,
on the day after his arrival, came to battle with
Ton-thormod, and took him prisoner. Mal-or-
chol offers his daughter Oina-morul to Ossian ;
but he, discovering her passion for Ton-thormod,
generously surrenders her to her lover, and brings
about a reconciliation between the two kings.]

AS flies the unconstant sun over Larmon's grassy
hill, so pass the tales of old along my soul by night !
When bards are removed to their place, when harps
are hung in Selma's hall, then comes a voice to
Ossian, and awakes his soul ! It is the voice of
years that are gone i they roll before me with all
their deeds ! I seize the tales as they pass, and
pour them forth in song. Nor a troubled stream is
the song of the king ; it is like the rising of music
from Lutha of the strings. Lutha of many strings,
not silent are thy streamy rocks, when the white
hands of Malvina move upon the harp !■ Light of the
shadowy thoughts that fly across my soul, daughter
of Tosear of helmets, wilt thou not hear the song ?
We call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have
rolled away ! It was in the days of the king, while
yet my locks were young, that I marked Concath-
lin* on high, from ocean's nightly wave. My course
was towards the isle of Fuàrfed, woody dweller of

• Con-cathlin, « mild beam of the wave.' What
star was so called of old is not easily ascertained.
Some now distinguish the pole-star by that name.

214 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

seas ! Fingal had sent me to the aid of Mal-orchol,
king of Fuiirfed wild : for war was around him,
and our fathers had met at the feast.

In Col-coiled I bound my sails : I sent my sword
to Mal-orchol of shells. He knew thesignal of Al-
bion, and his joy arose. He came from his own high
hall, and seized my hand in grief. ' Why comes
the race of heroes to a falling king ? Ton-thormod
of many spears is the chief of wavy Sar-dronlo. He
saw and loved my daughter, white-bosomed Oina-
morul. He sought; I denied the maid, for our fa-
thers had been foes. He came with battle to Fuiir-
fed ; my people are rolled away. Why comes the
race of heroes to a falling king ?'

I come not, I said, to look like a boy on the
strife. Fingal remembers Mal-orchol, and his hall
for strangers. From his waves the warrior de-
scended on thy woody isle : thou wert no cloud
before him. Thy feast was spread with songs. For
this my sword shall rise, and thy foes perhaps may
fail. Our friends are not forgot in their danger,
though distant is our land.

' Descendant of the daring Trenmor, thy words
are like the voice of Cruth-loda, when he speaks
from his parting cloud, strong dweller of the sky !
Many have rejoiced at my feast; but they all have
forgot Mal-orchol. I have looked towards all the
winds, but no white sails were seen ! but steel re-
sounds in my hall, and not the joyful shells. Come
to my dwelling, race of heroes ! dark-skirted night
is near. Hear the voice of songs from the maid of
Fuarfed wild.*

We went. On the harp arose the white hands of
Oina-morul. She waked her' own sad tale from
every trembling string. I stood in silence; for
bright in her locks was the daughter of many isles !
Her eyes were two stars, looking forward through
a rushing shower. The mariner marks them on
high, and blesses the lovely beams. With morning
we rushed to battle to Tormul's resounding stream :
the foe moved to the sound of Ton-thormod's bossy
shield. From wing to wing the strife was mixed.
I met Ton-thormod in fight. Wide flew his broken

OINA-MORUL. 215

steel. I seized the king in war. I gave his hand,
bound fast with thongs, to Mal-orchol, the giver of
shells. Joy rose at the feast of Fuàrfed, for the foe
had failed. Ton-thormod turned his face away
from Oina-morul of isles !

Son of Fingal, begun Mal-orchol, not forgot shalt
thou pass from me. A light shall dwell in thy ship,
Oina-morul of slow-rolling eyes. She shall kindle
gladness along thy mighty soul. Nor unheeded
shall the maid move in Selma through the dwelling
of kings.

In the hall I lay in night. Mine eyes were half
closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine ear. It
was like the rising breeze, that whirls at first the
thistle's beard, then flies dark-shadowy over the
grass. It was the maid of Fuarfed wild ! she raised
the nightly song; she knew that my soul was a
stream that flowed at pleasant sounds. ' Who looks,'
she said, ' from his rock on ocean's closing mist ?
His long locks, like the raven's wing, are wandering
on the blast. Stately are his steps in grief ! The
tears are in his eyes ! His manly breast is heaving
over his bursting soul ! Retire, I am distant afar,
a wanderer in lands unknown. Though the race
of kings are around me, yet my soul is dark. Why
have our fathers been foes, Ton-thormod, love of
maids !'

' Soft voice of the streamy isle,' I said, « why
dost thou mourn by night ? The race of daring
Trenmor are not the dark in soul. Thou shalt not
wander by streams unknown, blue-eyed Oina-mo-
rul ! Within this bosom is a voice : it comes not
to other ears ; it bids Ossian hear the hapless in
their hour of woe. Retire, soft singer by night !
Ton-thormod shall not mourn on his rock !'

With morning I loosed the king. I gave the long-
haired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words in the
midst of his echoing halls. « King of Fuàrfed wild,
why should Ton-thormod mourn ? He is of the
race of heroes, and a flame in war. Your fathers
have been foes, but now their dim ghosts rejoice in
death. They stretch their hands of mist to the same

216 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

shell in Loda. Forget their rage, ye warriors ! it

was the cloud of other years.'

Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks
were young: though loveliness, with a robe of
beams, clothed the daughter of many isles. We
call back, maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled
away!

COLNA-DONA.

[Fingal despatches Ossian, and Toscar, the son of
Conloch and father of Malvina, to raise a stone
on the banks of the stream of Crona, to perpetu-
ate the memory of a victory which he had ob-
tained in that place. When they were employed
in that work, Car-ul, a neighbouring chief, in-
vited them to a feast. They went, and Toscar
fell desperately in love with Colna-dona, the
daughter of Car-ul. Colna-dona became no less
enamoured of Toscar. An incident at a hunting
party brings their loves to a happy issue.]

COL-AMON * of troubled streams, dark-wanderer
of distant vales, I behold thy course between trees
near Car-ul's echoing halls. There dwelt bright
Colna-dona, the daughter of the king. Her eyes
were rolling stars ; her arms were white as the foam
of streams. Her breast rose slowly to sight, like
ocean's heaving wave. Her soul was a stream of
light. Who, among the maids, was like the love
of heroes ?

Beneath the voice of the king we moved to Crena t
of the streams, Toscar of grassy Lutha, and Ossian
young in fields. Three bards attended with songs.
Three bossy shields were borne before us: for we
were to rear the stone in memory of the past. By
Crona's mossy course Fingal had scattered his foes ;
he had rolled away the strangers like a troubled
sea. We came to the place of renown : from the
mountains descended night. I tore an oak from
its hill, and raised a flame on high. I bade my
fathers to look down from the clouds of their hall;

* Colna-dona signifies ' the love of heroes.' Col-
amon, ' narrow river.' Car-ul, ' dark-eyed.'

t Crona, ' murmuring,' was the name of a small
stream which discharged itself into the river Carron.

218 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

for at the fame of their race they brighten in the
wind.

I took a stone from the stream, amidst the song
of bards. The blood of Fingal's foes hung curdled
in its ooze. Beneath I placed, at intervals, three
bosses from the shields of foes, as rose or fell the
sound of Ullin's nightly song. Toscar laid a dagger
in earth, a mail of sounding steel. We raised the
mould around the stone, and bade it speak to other
years.

Oozy daughter of streams that now art reared on
high, speak to the feeble, O stone ! after Selma's race
have failed ! Prone from the stormy night, the tra-
veller shall lay him by thy side: thy whistling moss
shall sound in his dreams; the years that were past
shall return. Battles rise before him, blue-shielded
kings descend to war: the darkened moon looks
from heaven on the troubled field. He shall burst
with morning from dreams, and see the tombs of
warriors round. He shall ask about the stone, and
the aged shall reply, ' This gray stone was raised
by Ossian, a chief of other years !'

From Col-amon came a bard, from Car-ul, the
friend of strangers. He bade us to the feast of
kings, to the dwelling of bright Colna-dona. We
went to the hall of harps. There Car-ul brightened
between his aged locks, when he beheld the sons of
his friends, like two young branches before him.

* Sons of the mighty,' he said, « ye bring back the
days of old, when first I descended from waves c
Selma's streamy vale ! I pursued Duthmocarglos,
dweller of ocean's wind. Our fathers had been foes ;
we met by Clutha's winding waters. He fled along '
the sea, and my sails were spread behind him. Night
deceived me on the deep. I came to the dwelling '
of kings, to Selma of high-bosomed maids. Fingal
came forth with his bards, and Conloch arm <
death. I feasted three days in the hall, and saw the
blue eyes of Erin Roscrana, daughter of heroes, light
of Cormac's race. Nor forgot did my steps depart :
the kings gave their shields to Car-ul : they hang
on high in Col-amon, in memory of the past. Sons
of the daring kings, yc bring back the days of old !'

COLNA-DONA. <>19

Car-ul kindled the oak of feasts. He took two
bosses from our shields. He laid them in earth
beneath a stone, to speak to the hero's race. ' When
battle,' said the king, ' shall roar, and our sons are
to meet in wrath, my race shall look perhaps on this
stone, when they prepare the spear. Have not our
fathers met in peace ? they will say, and lay aside
the shield.'

Night came down. In her long locks moved the
daughter of Car-ul. Mixed with the harp arose the
voice of white-armed Colna-dona. Toscar darkened
in his place before the love of heroes. She came on
his troubled soul like a beam to the dark-heaving
ocean, when it bursts from a cloud, and brightens
the foamy side of a wave*.

With morning we awaked the woods, and hung
forward on the path of the roes. They fell by their
wonted streams. We returned through Crona's vale.
From the wood a youth came forward, with a shield
and pointless spear — 'Whence,' said Toscar of Lu-
tha, « is the flying beam ? Dwells there peace at
Col-amon, round bright Colna-dona of harps?'

■ By Col-amon of streams, 'said the youth, 'bright
Colna-dona dwelt. She dwelt; but her course is now
in deserts with the son of the king; he that seized
with love her soul as it wandered through the hall.'
I • Stranger of tales,' said Toscar, ' hast thou marked
! the warrior's course ? He must fall ; give thou that
| bossy shield.' In wrath he took the shield. Fair
behind it rose the breasts of a maid, white as the
bosom of a swan, rising graceful on swift-rolling
waves. It was Colna-dona of harps, the daughter
of the king ! Her blue eyes had rolled on Toscar,
and her love arose !

* Here an episode is entirely lost; or, at least, is
handed down so imperfectly, that it does not de»
serve a place in the poem.

OITHONA.

[Gaul, the son of Morni, attended Lathmon intohi3
own country, after his being defeated in Morven,
as related in a preceding poem. He was kindly
entertained by Nuiith, the father of Lathmon,
and fell in love with his daughter Oithona. The
lady was no less enamoured of Gaul, andia day
was fixed for their marriage. In the mean time
Fingal, preparing for an expedition into the coun-
try of the Britons, sent for Gaul. He obeyed,
and went ; but not without promising to Oithona
to return, if he survived the war, by a certain
day. Lathmon too was obliged to attend his fa-
ther Nuuth in his wars, and Oithona was left
alone at Dunlathmon, the seat of the family,
Dunrommath, lord of Uthal, supposed to be one
of the Orkneys, taking advantage of the absence
of her friends, came, and carried off by force,
Oithona, who had formerly rejected his love, into
Tromàthon, a desert island, where he concealed
her in a cave.

Gaul returned on the day appointed; heard of the
rape, and sailed to Tromàthon, to revenge him-
self on Dunrommath. When he landed, he found
Oithona disconsolate, and resolved not to survive
the loss of her honour. She told him the story
of her misfortunes, and she scarce ended, when
Dunrommath with his followers appeared at the
further end of the island. Gaul prepared to attack
him, recommending to Oithona to retire till the
battle was over. She seemingly obeyed; but she
secretly armed herself, rushed into the thickest
of the battle, and was mortally wounded. Gaul,
pursuing the flying enemy, found her just expiring
on the field : he mourned over her, raised her
tomb, and returned to Morven. Thus is the
story handed down by tradition ; nor is it given
with any material difference in the poem, which

OITHOXA. 221

opens with Gaul's return to Dunlathmon, after
the rape of Oithona.]

DARKNESS dwells around Dunlathmon, though
the moon shows half her face on the hill. The
daughter of night turns her eyes away ; she beholds
the approaching grief. The son of Morni is on the
plain .- there is no sound in the hall. No long-
streaming beam of light comes trembling through
the gloom. The voice of Oithona is not heard
amidst the noise of the streams of Duvranna.
' Whither art thou gone in thy beauty, dark-haired
daughter of Nui\th ! Lathmon is in the field of the
valiant, but thou didst promise to remain in the hall
till the son of Morni returned — till he returned
from Strumon, to the maid of his love ! The tear
was on thy cheek at his departure ; the sigh rose
in secret in thy breast. But thou dost not come
forth with songs, with the lightly-trembling sound
of the harp !'

Such were the words of Gaul, when he came to
Dunlathmon's towers. The gates were open and
dark. The winds were blustering in the hall. The
trees strewed the threshold with leaves; the mur-
mur of night was abroad. Sad and silent, at a rock,
the son of Morni sat : his soul trembled for the
maid; but he knew not whither to turn his course!
The son of Leth stood at a distance, and heard the
winds of his bushy hair. But he did not raise his
voice, for he saw the sorrow of Gaul !

Sleep descended on the chiefs. The visions of
night arose. Oithona stood, in a dream, before the
eyes of Morni's son. Her hair was loose and disor-
dered : her lovely eye rolled deep in tears. Blood
stained her snowy arm. The robe half hid the
wound of her breast. She stood over the chief, and
her voice was feebly heard. • Sleeps the son of
Morni, he that was lovely in the eyes of Oithona ?
Sleeps Gaul at the distant rock, and the daughter
of Nuathlow? The sea rolls round the dark isle
of Tromathon. I sit in my tears in the cave ! Nor
do I sit alone, O Gaul ! the dark chief of Cuthal is
there. He is there in the rage of his love. What
can Oithona do?'

222 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

A rougher blast rushed through the oak. The
dream of night departed. Gaul took his aspen
spear. He stood in the rage of his soul. Often did
his eyes turn to the east. He accused the lagging
light. At length the morning came forth. The
hero lifted up the sail. The winds came rustling
from the hill; he bounded on the waves of the deep.
On the third day arose Tromathon, like a blue
shield in the midst of the sea. The white wave
roared against its rocks; sad Oithona sat on the
coast ! She looked on the rolling waters, and her
tears came down. But when she saw Gaul in his
arms, she started, and turned her eyes away. Her
lovely cheek is bent and red ; her white arm trembles
by her side. Thrice she strove to fly from his pre-
sence; thrice her steps failed as she went !

" Daughter of Nuath,' said the hero, • why dost
thou fly from Gaul ? Do my eyes send forth the
flame of death ? Darkens hatred in my soul ? Thou
art to me the beam of the east, rising in a land un-
known. But thou coverest thy face with sadness,
daughter of car-borne Nuiith ! Is the foe of Oithona
near ? My soul burns to meet him in fight. The
sword trembles by the side of Gaul, and longs to
glitter in his hand. Speak, daughter of Nuath !
Dost thou not behold my tears ?'

' Young chief of Strumon,' replied the maid,
' why comest thou over the dark-blue wave, to
Nuath's mournful daughter ? Why did I not pass
away in secret, like the flower of the rock, that lifts
its fair head unseen, and strews its withered leaves
on the blast ? Why didst thou come, O Gaul ! to hear
my departing sigh ? I vanish in my youth ; my name
shall not be heard. Or it will be heard with grief;
thetears of Nuath must fall. Thou wilt be sad, son
of Morni ! for the departed fame of Oithona. But she
shall sleep in the narrow tomb, far from the voice
of the mourner. Why didst thou come, chief of
Strumon .' to the sea-beat rocks of Tromathon ?'

'I came to meet thy foes, daughter of car-borne
Nuath ! The death of Cuthal's chief darkens before
me; or Morni'sson shall fall ! Oithona! when Gaul
is low, raise my tomb on that oozy rock. When the
dark-bounding ship shall pass, call the sons of the

OITHONA. 22S

sea; call them, and give this sword, to bear it hence
to Morni's hall. The gray-haired chief will then
cease to look towards the desert for the return of
his son !'

• Shall the daughter of Nuath live ?' she replied
with a bursting sigh. * Shall I live in Tromàthon,
and the son of Morni low ? My heart is not of that
rock ; nor my soul careless as that sea, which lifts
its blue waves to every wind, and rolls beneath the
storm ! The blast which shall lay thee low, shall
spread the branches of Oithona on earth. We shall
wither together, son of car-borne Morni ! The nar-
row house is pleasant to me, and the gray stone of
the dead : for never more will I leave thy rocks, O
sea-surrounded Tromàthon ! Night came on with
her clouds, after the departure of Lathmon, when
he went to the wars of his fathers, to the moss-
covered rock of Duthòrmoth. Night came on. I
sat in the hall, at the beam of the oak ! The wind
was abroad in the trees. I heard the sound of arms.
Joy rose in my face. I thought of thy return. It
was the chief of Cuthal, the red-haired strength of
Dunrommath. His eyes rolled in fire : the blood of
my people was on his sword. They who defended
Oithona fell by the gloomy chief ! What could I do ?
My arm was weak. I could not lift the spear. He
took me in my grief, amidst my tears he raised the
sail. He feared the returning Lathmon, the brother
of unhappy Oithona! But behold he comes with
his people ! the dark wave is divided before him !
Whither wilt thou turn thy steps, son of Morni ?
Many are the warriors of thy foe ?'

' My steps never turned from battle,' Gaul said,
and unsheathed his sword. ' Shall I then begin to
fear, Oithona ! when thy foes are near ? Go to thy
cave, my love, till our battle cease on the field.
Son of Leth, bring the bows of our fatheis ! the
sounding quiver of Morni ! Let our three warriors
bend the yew. Ourselves will lift the spear. They
are an host on the rock ! our souls are strong in war !'

Oithona went to the cave. A troubled joy rose
on her mind, like the red path of lightning on a
stormy cloud! Her soul was resolved; the tear was

224 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

dried from her wildly-looking eye. Dunrommath
slowly approached. He saw the son of Morni. Con-
tempt contracted his face, a smile is on his dark-
brown cheek; his red eye rolled, half-concealed
beneath his shaggy brows !

« Whence are the sons of the sea ?' begun the
gloomy chief. * Have the winds driven you on the
rocks of Tromathon ? or came you in search of the
white-handed maid ? The sons of the unhappy, ye
feeble men, come to the hand of Dunrommath ! His
eye spares not the weak ; he delights in the blood
of strangers. Oithona is a beam of light, and the
chief of Cuthal enjoys it in secret; wouldest thou
come on its loveliness, like a cloud, son of the fee-
ble hand ! Thou mayest come, but shalt thou re-
turn to the halls of thy fathers ?'

* Dost thou not know me ?' said Gaul, ' red-haired
chief of Cuthal ? Thy feet were swift on the heath,
in the battle of car-borne Lathmon ; when the sword
of Morni's son pursued his host, in Morven's woody-
land. Dunrommath ! thy words are mighty, for thy
warriors gather behind thee. But do I fear them, son
of pride? I am not of the race of the feeble !'

Gaul advanced in his arms; Dunrommath shrunk
behind his people. But the spear of Gaul pierced
the gloomy chief: his sword lopped off his head, as
it bended in death. The son of Morni shook it
thrice by the lock; the warriors of Dunrommath
fled. The arrows of Morven pursued them : ten fell
on the mossy rocks. The rest lift the sounding sail,
and bound on the troubled deep. Gaul advanced
towards the cave of Oithona. He beheld a youth
leaning on a rock. An arrow had pierced his side ;
his eye rolled faintly beneath his helmet. The soul
of Morni's son was sad, he came and spoke the
words of peace.

• Can the hand of Gaul heal thee, youth of the
mournful brow ? I have searched for the herbs of
the mountains ; I have gathered them on the secret
banks of their streams. My hand has closed the
wound of the brave, their eyes have blessed the
son of Morni. Where dwelt thy fathers, warrior ?
Were they of the sons of the mighty ? Sadness shall

OITHONA. 225

come, like night, on thy native streams. Thou art
fallen in thy youth !'

' My fathers !' replied the stranger, • were of the
race of the mighty ; but they shall not be sad ; for
my fame is departed like morning mist. High walls
rise on the banks of Duvranna ; and see their mossy
towers in the stream; a rock ascends behind them
with its bending pines. Thou mayest behold it far
distant. There my brother dwells. Heis renowned
in battle : give him this glittering helmet.'

The helmet fell from the hand of Gaul. It was
the wounded Oithona ! She had armed herself in
the cave, and came in search of death. Her heavy
eyes are half closed ; the blood pours from her
heaving side. ' Son of Morni !' she said, • prepare
the narrow tomb. Sleep grows, like darkness, on
my soul. The eyes of Oithona are dim ! O had I
dwelt at Duvranna, in the bright beam of my fame !
then had my years come on with joy ; the virgins
would then bless my steps. But I fall in youth,
son of Morni ! my father shall blush in his hall !'

She fell pale on the rock of Tromàthon. The
mournful warrior raised her tomb. He came to
Morven ; we saw the darkness of his soul. Ossian
took the harp in the praise of Oithona. The bright-
ness of the face of Gaul returned. But his sigh
rose, at times, in the midst of his friends; like
blasts that shake their unfrequent wings, after the
stormy winds are laid !

CROMA.

[Malvina, the daughter of Toscar, is overheard by
Ossian lamenting the death of Oscar her lover.
Ossian, to divert her grief, relates his own actions
in an expedition which he undertook, at Fingal's
command, to aid Crothar the petty king of Croma,
a country in Ireland, against Kothmar, who in-
vaded his dominions. The story is delivered down
thus in tradition. Crothar, king of Croma, being
blind with age, and his son too young for the
field, Rothmar, the chief of Tromlo, resolved to
avail himself of the opportunity offered of an-
nexing the dominions of Crothar to his own. He
accordingly marched into the country subject to
Crothar, but which he held of Arth or Artho, who
was, at the time, supreme king of Ireland.

Crothar being, on account of his age and blind-
ness, unfit for action, sent for aid to Fingal, king
of Scotland ; who ordered his son Ossian to the
relief of Crothar. But before his arrival Fovar-
gormo, the son of Crothar, attacking Rothmar,
was slain himself, and his forces totally defeated.
Ossian renewed the war ; came to battle, killed
Rothmar, and routed his army. Croma being
thus delivered of its enemies, Ossian returned to
Scotland.]

' IT was the voice of my love ! seldom art thou in
the dreams of Malvina ! Open your airy halls, O
father of Toscar of shields I Unfold the gates of
your clouds : the steps of Malvina are near. I have
heard a voice in my dream. I feel the fluttering of
my soul. Why didst thou come, O blast! from the
dark-rolling face of the lake ! Thy rustling wing
was in the tree ; the dream of Malvina fled. But
she beheld her love, when his robe of mist flew on
the wind. A sunbeam was on his skirts ; they glit-

CROMA. 227

tered like the gold of the stranger. It was the voice
of my love ! seldom comes he to my dreams '

' But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of
mighty Ossian ! My sighs arise with the beam of the
east; my tears descend with the drops of night. I
was a lovely tree, in thy presence, Oscar, with all
my branches round me ; but thy death came like a
blast from the desert, and laid my green head low.
The spring returned with its showers; no leaf of
mine arose ! The virgins saw me silent in the hall ;
they touched the harp of joy. The tear was on the
cheek of Malvina: the virgins beheld me in my
grief. Why art thou sad ? they said, thou first of
the maids of Lutha ! Was he lovely as the beam of
the morning, and stately in thy sight ?'

Pleasant is thy song in Ossian's ear, daughter of
streamy Lutha! Thou hast heard the music of de-
parted bards in the dream of thy rest, when sleep
fell on thine eyes, at the murmur of Moruth. When
thou didst return from the chase, in the day of the
sun, thou hast heard the music of bards, and thy
song is lovely ! It is lovely, O Malvina ! but it melts
the soul. There is a joy in grief when peace dwells
in the breast of the sad. But sorrow wastes the
mournful, O daughter of Toscar ! and their days
are few ! They fall away, like the flower on which
the sun hath looked in his strength, after the mil-
dew has passed over it, when its head is heavy with
the drops of night. Attend to the tales of Ossian,

0 maid ! He remembers the days of his youth !
The king commanded ; I raised my sails, and rush-
ed into the bay of Croma; into Croma's sounding
bay in lovely Inisfail*. High on the coast arose
the towers of Crothar king of spears; Crothar re-
nowned in the battles of his youth ; but age dwelt
then around the chief. Rothmar had raised the
sword against the hero ; and the wrath of Fingal
burned. He sent Ossian to meet Rothmar in war,
for the chief of Croma was the friend of his youth.

1 sent the bard before me with songs. I came into
the hall of Crothar. There sat the chief amidst the

* Inisfail, one of the ancient names of Ireland.

228 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

arms of his fathers, but his eyes had failed. His
gray locks waved around a staff, on which the war-
rior leaned. He hummed the song of other times,
when the sound of our arms reached his ears. Cro-
thar rose, stretched his aged hand, and blessed the
son of Fingal.

' Ossian !' said the hero, ' the strength of Cro-
thar's arm has failed. O could I lift the sword as
on the day that Fingal fought at Strutha ! He was
the first of men ; but Crothar had also his fame.
The king of Morven praised me; he placed on my
arm the bossy shield of Calthar, whom the king
had slain in his wars. Dost thou not behold it on
the wall ? for Crothar's eyes have failed. Is thy
strength like thy father's, Ossian ? let the aged feel
thine arm !'

I gave my arm to the king; he felt it with his aged
hands. The sigh rose in his breast, and his tears
came down. ' Thou art strong, my son,' he said, ,
* but not like the king of Morven ! But who is like
the hero among the mighty in war? Let the feast
of my hall be spread ; and let my bards exalt the
song. Great is he that is within my walls, ye sons of
echoing Croma! The feast is spread. The harp is
heard ; and joy is in the hall. But it was joy co-
vering a sigh, that darkly dwelt in every breast.
It was like the faint beam of the moon spread on a
cloud in heaven. At length the music ceased, and
the aged king of Croma spoke; he spoke without
a tear, but sorrow swelled in the midst of his voice.

' Son of Fingal ! beholdest thou not the dark-
ness of Crothar's joy ? My soul was not sad at the
feast, when my people lived before me. I rejoiced
in the presence of strangers, when my son shone in
the hall. But, Ossian, he is a beam that is departed.
He left no streak of light behind. He is fallen, son
of Fingal ! in the wars of his father. Rothmar the
chief of grassy Tromlo heard that these eyes had
failed ; he heard that my arms were fixed in the
hall, and the pride of his soul arose ! He came to-
wards Croma; my people fell before him. I took
my arms in my wrath, but what could sightless
Crothar do? My steps were unequal, my grief

CROMA. 229

was great. I wished for the days that were past-
Days wherein I fought, and won in the field of
blood. My son returned from the chase — the fair-
haired Fovar-gormo. He had not lifted his sword
in battle, for his arm was young. But the soul of
the youth was great ; the fire of valour burnt in his
eyes. He saw the disordered steps of his father,
and his sigh arose. — ' King of Croma,' he said, « is
it because thou hast no son ; is it for the weakness
of Fovar-gormo's arm that thy sighs arise ? I begin,
my father, to feel my strength ; I have drawn the
sword of my youth; and I have bent the bow. Let
me meet this Rothmar, with the sons of Croma:
let me meet him, O my father ! I feel my burning
soul !' — • And thou shalt meet him,' I said, ' son of
the sightless Crothar ! But let others advance be-
fore thee, that I may hear the tread of thy feet at
thy return ; for my eyes behold thee not, fair-haired
Fovar-gormo !' He went ; he met the foe ; he fell.
Rothmar advances to Croma. He who slew my son
is near, with all his pointed spears.'

This is no time to fill the shell, I replied, and took
my spear! My people saw the fire of my eyes;
they all arose around. Through night we strode
along the heath. Gray morning rose in the east.
A green narrow vale appeared before us ; nor want-
ing was its winding stream. The dark host of
Rothmar are on its banks, with all their glittering
arms. We fought along the vale. They fled.
Rothmar sunk beneath my sword ! Day had not
descended in the west, when I brought his arms to
Crothar. The aged hero felt them with his hands;
and joy brightened over all his thoughts.

The people gather to the hall ! The shells of the
feast are heard. Ten harps are strung; five bards
advance, and sing, by turns, the praise of Ossian ;
they poured forth their burning souls, and the string
answered to their voice. The joy of Croma was
great : for peace returned to the land. The night
came on with silence; the morning returned with
joy. No foe came in darkness with his glittering
spear. The joy of Croma was great ; for the gloomy
Rothmar had fallen !

230 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

I raise my voice for Fovar-gormo, when they
laid the chief in earth. The aged Crothar was there,
but his sigh was not heard. He searched for the
wound of his son, and found it in his breast. Joy
rose in the face of the aged. He came and spoke
to Ossian. '■ King of spears !' he said, ' my son has
notfallen without his fame. The young warrior did
not fly; but met death as he went forward in his
strength. Happy are they who die in youth, when
their renown is heard ! The feeble will not behold
them in the hall, or smile at their trembling hands.
Their memory ghall be honoured in song; the
young tear of the virgin will fall. But the aged
wither away by degrees; the fame of their youth,
while yet they live, is all forgot. They fall in secret.
The sigh of their son is not heard. Joy is around
their tomb; the stone of their fame is placed with-
out a tear. Happy are they who die in their youth,
when their renown is around them !'

CALTHON AND COLMAL,

[This piece, as many more of Ossian's composi-
tions, is addressed to one of the first Christian
missionaries. The story of the poem is handed
down by tradition, thus: — In the country of the
Britons between the walls, two chiefs lived in the
days of Fingal, Dunthalmo, lord of Teutha, sup-
posed to be the Tweed ; and Rathmor, who dwelt
at Clutha, well known to be the river Clyde.
Rathmor was not more renowned for his gene-
rosity and hospitality, than Dunthalmo was in-
famous for his cruelty and ambition. Dunthalmo,
through envy, or on account of some private
feuds which subsisted between the families, mur-
dered Rathmor at a feast ; but, being afterwards
touched with remorse, he educated the two sons
of Rathmor, Calthon and Colmar, in his own
house. They growing up to man's estate, drop-
ped some hints that they intended to revenge the
death of their father, upon which Dunthalmo
shut them up in two caves on the banks of Teu-
tha, intending to take them off privately. Col-
mal, the daughter of Dunthalmo, who was se-
cretly in love with Calthon, helped him to make
his escape from prison, and fled with him to
Fingal, disguised in the habit of a young warrior,
and implored his aid against Dunthalmo. Fingal
sent Ossian with three hundred men to Colmar's
relief. Dunthalmo having previously murdered
Colmar, came to a battle with Ossian; but he
was killed by that hero, and his army totally
defeated.

Calthon married Colmal, his deliverer; and
Ossian returned to Morven.]

PLEASANT is the voice of thy song, thou lonely
dweller of the rock ! It comes on the sound of the

532 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

stream, along the narrow vale. My soul awakes,
O stranger ! in the midst of my hall. I stretch my
hand to the spear, as in the days of other years. I
stretch my hand, but it is feeble; and the sigh of
my bosom grows. "Wilt thou not listen, son of the
rock ! to the song of Ossian ? My soul is full of
other times ; the joy of my youth returns. Thus
the sun appears in the west, after the steps of his
brightness have moved behind a storm : the green
hills lift their dewy heads : the blue streams re-
joice in the vale. The aged hero comes forth on
his staff; his gray hair glitters in the beam. Dost
thou not behold, son of the rock, a shield in Os-
sian's hall ? It is marked with the strokes of bat-
tle ; and the brightness of its bosses has failed.
That shield the great Dunthalmo bore, the chief
of streamy Teutha. Dunthalmo bore it in battle,
before he fell by Ossian's spear. Listen, son of the
rock ! to the tale of other years.

Rathmor was a chief of Clutha. The feeble
dwelt in his hall. The gates of Rathmor were ne-
ver shut: his feast was always spread. The sons
of the stranger came. They blessed the generous
chief of Clutha. Bards raised the song, and touch-
ed the harp : joy brightened on the face of the sad !
Dunthalmo came in his pride, and rushed into the
combat of Rathmor. The chief of Clutha over-
came: the rage of Dunthalmo arose. He came by
night with his warriors; the mighty Rathmor fell.
He fell in his halls where his feast was often spread
for strangers.

Colmar and Calthon were young, the sons of car-
borne Rathmor. They came, in the joy of youth,
into their father's hall. They behold him in his
blood ; their bursting tears descend. The soul of
Dunthalmo melted when he saw the children of
youth. He brought them to Alteutha's walls; they
grew in the house of their foe. They bent the bow
in his presence ; and came forth to his wars. They
saw the fallen walls of their fathers ; they saw the
green thorn in the hall. Their tears rushed forth
in secret. At times their faces were sad. Dun-
thalmo beheld their grief: his darkening soul de-

CALTHON AND COLMAL. 233

signed their death. He closed them in two caves
on the echoing banks of Teutha. The sun did not
come there with his beams, nor the moon of hea-
ven by night. The sons of Rathmor remained in
darkness, and foresaw their death.

The daughter of Dunthalmo wept in silence, the
fair-haired, blue-eyed Colmal. Her eye had rolled
in secret on Calthon ; his loveliness swelled in her
soul. She trembled for her warrior; but what could
Colmal do ? Her arm could not lift the spear ; nor
was the sword formed for her side. Her white
breast never rose beneath a mail. Neither was her
eye the terror of heroes. What canst thou do, O
Colmal! for the falling chief? Her steps are un-
equal; her hair is loose; her eye looks wildly
through her tears. She came by night to the hall.
She armed her lovely form in steel ; the steel of a
young warrior who fell in the first of his battles.
She came to the cave of Calthon, and loosed the
thong from his hands.

* Arise, son of Rathmor,' she said, « arise, the
night is dark ! Let us fly to the king of Selma,
chief of fallen Clutha ! I am the son of Lamgal,
who dwelt in thy father's hall. I heard of thy dark
dwelling in the cave, and my soul arose. Arise,
son of Rathmor ! arise, the night is dark !' — * Elest
voice !' replied the chief, ' comest thou from the
clouds to Calthon ? The ghosts of his fathers have
often descended in his dreams, since the sun has
retired from his eyes, and darkness has dwelt
around him. Or art thou the son of Lamgal, the
chief I often saw in Clutha ? But shall I fly to
Fingal, and Colmar my brother low ? Will I fly to
Morven, and the hero closed in night? No; give
me that spear, son of Lamgal; Calthon will defend
his brother !'

* A thousand warriors,' replied the maid, 'stretch
their spears round car-borne Colmar. What can
Calthon do against a host so great ? Let us fly to
the king of Morven ; he will come with war. His
arm is stretched forth to the unhappy; the light-
ning of his sword is round the weak. Arise, thou
son of Rathmor; the shadows will fly away.

231 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Arise, or thy steps may be seen, and thou must

fall in youth.'

The sighing hero rose ; his tears descend for car-
borne Colmar. He came with the maid to Selma's
hall : but he knew not that it was Colmal. The hel-
met covered her lovely face. Her bosom heaved
beneath the steel. Fingal returned from the chase,
and found the lovely strangers. They were like
two beams of light in the midst of the hall of shel's.
The king heard the tale of grief; and turned his
eyes around. A thousand heroes half rose before
him, claiming the war of Teutha. I came with my
spear from the hill ; the joy of battle rose in my
breast: for the king spoke to Ossian in the midst
of a thousand chiefs.

• Son of my strength,' began the king, ' take
thou the spear of Fingal. Go to Teutha's rushing
stream, and save the car-borne Colmar. Let thy
fame return before thee like a pleasant gale ; that
my soul may rejoice over my son, who renews the
renown of our fathers. Ossian ! be thou a storm in
war ; but mild when the foe is low ! It was thus
my fame arose, O my son ! be thou like Selma's
chief. When the haughty come to my halls, my
eyes behold them not. But my arm is stretched
forth to the unhappy. My sword defends the weak.'

I rejoiced in the words of the king. I took my
rattling arms. Diaran rose at my side, and Dargo,
king of spears. Three hundred youths followed
our steps; the lovely strangers were at my side.
Dunthalmo heard the sound of our approach. He
gathered the strength of Teutha. He stood on a
hill with his host. They were like rocks broken
with thunder, when their bent trees are singed and
bare, and the streams of their chinks have failed.
The stream of Teutha rolled in its pride before
the gloomy foe. I sent a bard to Dunthalmo to
offer the combat on the plain ; but he smiled in the
darkness of his pride. His unsettled host moved
on the hill; like the mountain cloud, when the
blast has entered its womb, and scatters the curling
gloom on every side.

They brought Colmar to Teutha's bank, bound

CALTHON AND COLMAL. 233

with a thousand thongs. The chief is sad, but
stately. His eye is on his friends; for we stood in
our arms whilst Teutha's waters rolled between.
Dunthalmo came with his spear and pierced the
hero's side: he rolled on the bank in his blood.
We beard his broken sighs. Calthon rushed into
the stream: I bounded forward on my spear.
Teutha's race fell before us. Night came rolling
down. Dunthalmo rested on a rock amidst an
aged wood. The rage of his bosom burned against
the car-borne Calthon. But Calthon stood in his
grief; he mourned the fallen Colmar; Colmar
slain in youth before his fame arose!

I bade the song of woe to rise to soothe the mourn-
ful chief; but he stood beneath a tree, and often
threw his spear on the earth. The humid eye of
Colmal rolled near in a secret tear ; she foresaw the
fall of Dunthalmo, or of Clutha's warlike chief.
Now half the night had passed away. Silence and
darkness were on the field. Sleep rested on the
eyes of the heroes: Calthon's settling soul was
still. His eyes were half closed ; but the murmur
of Teutha had not yet failed in his ear. Pale, and
showing his wounds, the ghost of Colmar came:
he bent his head over the hero, and raised his fee-
ble voice !

" Sleeps the son of Rathmor in his night, and his
brother low ? Did we not rise to the chase toge-
ther ? Pursued we not the dark-brown hinds ?
Colmar was not forgot till he fell, till death had
blasted his youth. I lie pale beneath the rock of
Lona. O let Calthon rise ! the morning comes
with its beams; Dunthalmo will dishonour the
fallen.' He passed away in his blast. The rising
Calthon saw the steps of his departure. He rushed
in the sound of his steel. Unhappy Colmal ros<?.
She followed her hero through night, and dragged
her spear behind. But when Calthon came to Lo-
na's rock, he found his fallen brother. The rage
of his bosom rose ; he rushed among the foe. The
groans of death ascend. They close around the
chief. He is bound in the midst, and brought to

236 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

gloomy Dunthalrao. The shout of joy arose, and

the hills of night replied.

I started at the sound, and took my father's
spear. Diaran rose at my side; and the youthful
strength of Dargo. We missed the chief of Clutha,
and our souls were sad. I dreaded the departure
of my fame. The pride of my valour rose. ' Sons
of Morven !' I said, ' it is not thus our fathers
fought. They rested not on the field of strangers
when the foe was not fallen before them. Their
strength was like the eagles of heaven ; their re-
nown is in the song. But our people fall by de-
grees. Our fame begins to depart. What shall
the king of Morven say, if Ossian conquers not at
Teutha ? Rise in your steel, ye warriors ! follow
the sound of Ossian's course. He will not return
but renowned to the echoing walls of Selma.*

Morning rose on the blue waters of Teutha. Col-
mal stood before me in tears. She told of the chief
of Clutha : thrice the spear fell from her hand. My
wrath turned against the stranger; for my soul
trembled for Calthon. ' Son of the feeble hand !'
I said, 'do Teutha's warriors fight with tears?
The battle is not won with grief; nor dwells the
sigh in the soul of war. Go to the deer of Carmun,
to the lowing herds of Teutha. But leave these
arms, thou son of fear! a warrior may lift them
in fight.'

I tore the mail from her shoulders. Her snowy
breast appeared. She bent her blushing face to the
ground. I looked in silence to the chiefs. The spear
fell from my hand ; the sigh of my bosom rose !
But when I heard the name of the maid, my crowd-
ing tears rushed down. I blessed the lovely beam
of youth, and bade the battle move !

Why, son of the rock, should Ossian tell how
Teutha's warriors died ? They are now forgot in
their land; their tombs are not found on the heath.
Years came on with their storms. The green
mounds are mouldered away. Scarce is the grave
of Dunthalmo seen, or the place where he fell by
the spear of Ossian. Some gray warrior, half blind

CALTHON ANTD COLMAL. 237

with age, sitting by night at the flaming oak of the
hall, tells now my deeds to his sons, and the fall of
the dark Dunthalmo. The faces of youth bend
sidelong towards his voice. Surprise and joy burn
in their eyes ! I found C'althon bound to an oak ;
my sword cut the thongs from his hands. I gave
him the white-bosomed Colmal. They dwelt in
the halls of Tcutha.

THE

WAR OF CAROS.

[Caros is probably the noted usurper Carausius, by
birth a Menapian, who assumed the purple in the
year 284; and, seizing on Britain, defeated the
Emperor Maximinian Herculius in several naval
engagements, which gives propriety to his being
called in this poem ' the king of ships.' He re-
paired Agricola's wall, in order to obstruct the
incursions of the Caledonians ; and when he was
employed in that work, it appears he was attacked
by a party under the command of Oscar, the son
of Ossian. This battle is the foundation of the
present poem, which is addressed to Malvina,
the daughter of Toscar.]

BRING, daughter of Toscar, bring the harp ! the
light of the song rises in Ossian's soul ! It is like
the field when darkness covers the hills around, and
the shadow grows slowly on the plain of the sun.
I behold my son, O Malvina ! near the mossy rock
of Crona. But it is the mist of the desert, tinged
with the beam of the west ! Lovely is the mist that
assumes the form of Oscar ! turn from it, ye winds,
when ye roar on the side of Ardven !

Who comes towards my son with the murmur of
a song? His staff is in his hand, his gray hair loose
on the wind. Surly joy lightens his face. He
often looks back to Caros. It is Ryno of songs,
he that went to view the foe. • What does Caros,
king of ships ?' said the son of the now mournful
Ossian: 'spreads he the wings* of his pride, bard
of the times of old ?' — ' He spreads them, Oscar,"
replied the bard, ' but it is behind his gathered

• The Roman eagle.

THE WAR OF CAROS. 259

heap*. He looks over his stones with fear. He
beholds thee terrible, as the ghost of night, that
rolls the wave to his ships !'

' Go, thou first of my bards !' says Oscar, « take
the spear of Fingal. Fix a flame on its point. Shake
it to the winds of heaven. Bid him, in songs, to
advance, and leave the rolling of his wave. Tell
to Caros that I long for battle; that my bow is
weary of the chase of Cona. Tell him the mighty
are not here; and that my arm is young.'

He went with the murmur of songs. Oscar reared
his voice on high. It reached his heroes on Ard-
ven, like the noise of a cave ; when the sea of To-
gorma rolls before it, and its trees meet the roaring
winds. They gather round my son like the streams
of the hill ; when, after rain, they roll in the pride
of their course. Ryno came to the mighty Caros.
He struck his flaming spear. Ccme to the battle of
Oscar, O thou that sittest on the rolling of waves !
Fingal is distant far; he hears the songs of bards in
Morven : the wind of his hall is in his hair. His
terrible spear is at his side; his shield that is like
the darkened moon ! Come to the battle of Oscar ;
the hero is alone.

He came not over the streamy Carun. The bard
returned with his song. Gray night grows dim on
Crona. The feast of shells is spread. A hundred
oaks burn to the wind ; faint light gleams over the
heath. The ghosts of Ardven pass through the
be3m, and show their dim and distant forms. Co-
malaf is half unseen on her meteor; Hidallan is
sullen and dim, like the darkened moon behind the
mist of night.

• Why art thou sad ?' said Ryno ; for he alone
beheld the chief. ' Why art thou sad, Hidallan !
hast thou not received thy fame ? The songs of Os-
sian have been heard; thy ghost has brightened in
wind, when thou didst bend from thy cloud, to
hear the song of Morven's bard !' — « And do thine

* Agricola's wall, which Carausius repaired.

t This is the scene of Comala's death, which is
the subject of the dramatic poem,

240 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

eyes,' said Oscar, " behold the chief, like the dim
meteor of night? Say, Ryno, say, how fell Hidal-
lan, the renowned, in the days of my fathers ! His
name remains on the rocks of Cona. I have often
seen the streams of his hills !'

Fingal, replied the bard, drove Hidallan from his
wars. The king's soul was sad for Comala, and his
eyes could not behold the chief. Lonely, sad, along
the heath he slowly moved with silent steps. His
arms hang disordered on his side. His hair flies
loose from his brow. The tear is in his downcast
eyes; a sigh half-silent in his breast ! Three days
he strayed unseen, alone, before he came to Lamor's
halls : the mossy halls of his fathers, at the stream
of Balva. There Lamor sat alone beneath a tree;
for he had sent his people with Hidallan to war.
The stream ran at his feet, his gray head rested on
his staff. Sightless are his aged eyes. He hums the
song of other times. The noise of Hidallan's feet
came to his ear : he knew the tread of his son.

* Is the son of Lamor returned ; or is it the sound
of his ghost? Hast thou fallen on the banks of
Carun, son of the aged Lamor ? Or, if I hear the
sound of Hidallan's feet, where are the mighty in
the war? where are my people, Hidallan ! that were
wont to return with their echoing shields? Have
they fallen on the banks of Carun ?'

« No,' replied the sighing youth, « the people of
Lamor live. They are renowned in war, my fa-
ther ! but Hidallan is renowned no more. I must
sit alone on the banks of Balva, when the roar of
the battle grows.'

« But thy fathers never sat alone,' replied the
rising pride of Lamor. ' They never sat alone on
the banks of Balva, when the roar of battle rose.
Dost thou not behold that tomb ? My eyes discern
it not ; there rests the noble Garmallon, who never
fled from war ! Come, thou renowned in battle, he
says, come to thy father's tomb. How am I re-
nowned, Garmàllo ? my son has fled from war !'

« King of the streamy Balva !' said Hidallan with
a sigh, ■ why dost thou torment my soul ? Lamor,
I- never fled. Fingal was sad for Comala ; he de-

THE WAR OF CAROS. 2«

Tiied his wars to Hidallan. Go to the gray streams
of thy laud, he said ; moulder like a leafless oak,
which the winds have bent over Balva, never more
to grow !'

• And must I hear,' Lamor replied, • the lonely-
tread of Hidallan's feet ? When thousands are re-
nowned in battle, shall he bend over my gray
streams ? Spirit of the noble Garmallon ! carry La-
mor to his place; his eyes are dark, his soul is sad,
his son has lost his fame !'

' Where,' said the youth, ' shall I search for
fame, to gladden the soul of Lamor ? From whence
shall I return with renown, that the sound of my
arms may be pleasant in his ear ? If I go to the
chase of hinds, my name will not be heard. Lamor
will not feel my dogs with his hands, glad at my
arrival from the hill. He will not inquire of his
mountains, or of the dark-brown deer of his de-
serts !'

' I must fall,' said Lamor, ' like a leafless oak :
it grew on a rock ! it was overturned by the winds !
My ghost will be seen on my hills, mournful for my
young Hidallan. Will not ye, ye mists, as ye rise,
hide him from my sight i My son, go to Laiiior's
hall: there the arms of our fathers hang. Bring
the sword of Garmallon : he took it from a foe !'

He went and brought the sword with all its
studded thongs. He gave it to his father. The
gray-haired hero felt the point with his hand.

' My son, lead me to Garmàllon's tomb: it rises
beside that rustling tree. The long grass is withered ;
I hear the breezes whistling there. A little fountain
murmurs near, and sends its waters to Balva. There
let me rest; it is noon: the sun is on our fields !'

He led him to Garmallon's tomb. Lamor pierced
the side of his son. They sleep together : their an-
cient halls moulder away. Ghosts are seen there
at noon : the valley is silent, and the people shun
the place of Lamor.

' Mournful is thy tale,' said Oscar, « son of the

times of old ! My soul sighs for Hidallan ; he fell

in the days of his youth. He flies on the blast of

the desert: his wandering is in a foreign land.

M

242 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Sons of the echoing Morven ! draw near to the foes
of Fingal. Send the night away in songs ; watch
the strength of Caros. Oscar goes to the people of
other times; to the shades of silent Ardven, where
his fathers sit dim in their clouds, and behold the
future war. And art thou there, Hidallan, like a
half-extinguished meteor ? Come to my sight, in
thy sorrow, chief of the winding Balva !'

The heroes move with their songs. Oscar slowly
ascends the hill. The meteors of night set on the
heath before him. A distant torrent faintly roars.
Unfrequent blasts rush through aged oaks. The
half-enlightened moon sinks dim and red behind
her hill. Feeble voices are heard on the heath.
Oscar drew his sword !

' Come,' said the hero, ' O ye ghosts of my fa-
thers ! ye that fought against the kings of the world !
Tell me the deeds of future times; and your con-
verse in your caves, when you talk together, and
behold your sons in the fields of the brave.'

Trenmor came from his hill at the voice of his
mighty son. A cloud, like the steed of the stranger,
supported his airy limbs. His robe is of the mist
of Lano, that brings death to the people. His sword
is a green meteor half-extinguished. His face is
without form, and dark. He sighed thrice over the
hero: thrice the winds of night roared around!
Many were his words to Oscar ; but they only came
by halves to our ears ; they were dark as the tales
of other times, before the light of the song arose.
He slowly vanished, like a mist that melts on the
sunny hill. It was then, O daughter of Toscar !
my son began first to be sad. He foresaw the fall
of his race. At times he was thoughtful and dark,
like the sun when he carries a cloud on his face,
but again he looks forth from his darkness on the
green hills of Cona.

Oscar passed the night among his fathers; gray
morning met him on Carun's banks. A green vale
surrounded a tomb which arose in the times of old.
Little hills lift their heads at a distance, and stretch
their old trees to the wind. The warriors of Caros
sat there, for they had passed the stream by night.

THE WAR OF CAROS. 243

They appeared like the trunks of aged pines, to the
pale light of the morning. Oscar stood at the tomb,
and raised thrice his terrible voice. The rocking
hills echoed around; the staring roes bounded
away; and the trembling ghosts of the dead fled,
shrieking on their clouds. So terrible was the
voice of my son, when he called his friends !

A thousand spears arose around ; the people of
Caros rose. Why, daughter of Toscar, why that
tear? My son, though alone, is brave. Oscar is like
a beam of the sky ; he turns around, and the people
fall. His hand is the arm of a ghost, when he
stretches it from a cloud ; the rest of his thin form
is unseen ; but the people die in the vale ! My son
beheld the approach of the foe; he stood in the si-
lent darkness of his strength. ' Am I alone,' said
Oscar, ' in the midst of a thousand foes? Many a
spear is there ! many a darkly-rolling eye ! Shall I
fly to Ardven? But did my fathers ever fly ? The
mark of their arm is in a thousand battles. Oscar
too shall be renowned ! Come, ye dim ghosts of my
fathers, and behold my deeds in war ! I may fall ;
but I will be renowned like the race of the echoing
Morven.' He stood, growing in his place, like a
flood in a narrow vale ! The battle came, but they
fell : bloody was the sword of Oscar.

Thenoise reached his people at Crona; they came
like a hundred streams. The warriors of Caros fled ;
Oscar remained like a rock left by the ebbing sea.
Now dark and deep, with all his steeds, Caros rolled
his might along: the little streams are lost in his
course : the earth is rocking round. Battle spreads
from wing to wing ; ten thousand swords gleam at
once in the sky. But why should Ossian sing of
battles ? For never more shall my steel shine in
war. I remember the days of my youth with grief,
when I feel the weakness of my arm. Happy are
they who fell in their youth, in the midst of their
renown ! They have not beheld the tombs of their
friends, or failed to bend the bow of their strength.
Happy art thou, O Oscar, in the midst of thy rush-
ing blast. Thou often goest to the fields of thy fame,
where Caros fled from thy lifted sword.

244 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Darkness comes on my soul, O fair daughter of
Toscar ! I behold not the form of my son at Carun,
nor the figure of Oscar on Crona. The rustling
winds have carried him far away, and the heart of
his father is sad. But lead me, O Malvina ! to the
sound of my woods, to the roar of my mountain
streams. Let the chase be heard on Cona ; let me
think on the days of other years. And bring me the
harp, O maid ! that I may touch it when the light of
my soul shall arise. Be thou near to learn the song ;
future times shall hear of me ! The sons of the feeble
hereafter will lift the voice of Cona ; and, looking
up to the rocks, say, * Here Ossian dwelt.' They
shall admire the chiefs of old, the race that are no
more, while we ride on our clouds, Malvina ! on the
wings of the roaring winds. Our voices shall be
heard at times in the desert ; we shall sing on the
breeze of the rock.

CATHLIN OF CLUTHA.

[An address to Malvina, the daughter of Toscar.
The Poet relates the arrival of Cathlin in Selraa,
to solicit aid against Duth-carmor of Cluba, who
had killed Cathmol for the sake of his daughter
Lanul. Fingal declining to make a choice among
his heroes, who were all claiming the command
of the expedition, they retired « each to his hill of
ghosts,' to be determined by dreams. The spirit
of Trenmor appears to Ossian and Oscar. They
sail from the bay of Carmona, and, on the fourth
day, appear off the valley of Rath-col, in Inis-
huna, where Duth-carmor had fixed his residence.
Ossian despatches a bard to Duth-carmor to de-
mand battle. Night comes on. The distress of
Cathlin of Clutha. Ossian devolves the command
on Oscar, who, according to the custom of the
kings of Morven, before battle, retired to a neigh-
bouring hill. Upon the coming on of day, the
battle joins. Oscar and Duth-carmor meet. The
latter falls. Oscar carries the mail and helmet of
Duth-carmor to Cathlin, who had retired from the
field. Cathlin is discovered to be the daughter
of Cathmol in disguise, who had been carried off
by force, by, and had made her escape from,
Duth-carmor.]

COME, thou beam that art lonely, from watching
in the night ! The squally winds are around thee,
from all their echoing hills. Red, over my hun-
dred streams, are the light-covered paths of the
dead. They rejoice on the eddying winds, in the
season of night. Dwells there no joy in song, white
hand of the harps of Lutha ? Awake the voice of
the string ; roll my soul to me. It is a stream that
has failed. Malvina, pour the song.

I hear thee from thy darkness in Selma, thou
that watchest lonely by night! Why didst thou
withhold the song from Ossian's failing soul ? As

246 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

the falling brook to the ear of the hunter, descend-
ing from his storm-covered hill, in a sunbeam
rolls the echoing stream, he hears and shakes his
dewy locks : such is the voice of Lutha to the
friend of the spirits of heroes. My swelling bosom
beats high. I look back on the days that are past.
Come, thou beam that art lonely, from watching
in the night !

In the echoing bay of Carmona we saw one day
the bounding ship. On high hung a broken shield ;
it was marked with wandering blood. Forward
came a youth in arms, and stretched his pointless
spear. Long, over his tearful eyes, hung loose
his disordered locks. Fingal gave the shell of
kings. The words of the stranger arose. ' In his
hall lies Cathmol of Clutha, by the winding of his
own dark streams. Duth-carmor saw white-bo-
somed Lanul, and pierced her father's side. In
the rushy desert were my steps. He fled in the
season of night. Give thine aid to Cathlin to re-
venge his father. I sought thee not as a beam in
a land of clouds. Thou, like the sun, art known,
king of echoing Selma !'

Selma's king looked around. In his presence
we rose in arms. But who should lift the shield ?
for all had claimed the war. The night came
down ; we strode in silence, each to his hill of
ghosts, that spirits might descend in our dreams to
mark us for the field. We struck the shield of the
dead: we raised the hum of songs. We thrice
called the ghosts of our fathers. We laid us down
in dreams. Trenmor came, before mine eyes, the
tall form of other years ! His blue hosts were be-
hind him in half-distinguished rows.— Scarce seen
is their strife in mist, or their stretching forward
to deaths. I listened, but no sound was there.
The forms were empty wind !

I started from the dream of ghosts. On a sudden
blast flew my whistling hair. Low-sounding, in
the oak, is the departure of the dead. I took my
shield from its bough. Onward came the rattling
of steel. It was Oscar of Lego. He had seen his
fathers. ' As rushes forth the blast on the bosom

CATHLIN OF CLUTHA. 047

of whitening waves, so careless shall my course be,
through ocean, to the dwelling of foes. I have
seen the dead, my father ! My beating soul is
high ! My fame is bright before me, like the streak
of light on a cloud, when the broad sun comes
forth, red traveller of the sky !'

' Grandson of Branno,' I said, ' not Oscar alone
shall meet the foe. I rush forward; through ocean,
to the woody dwelling of heroes. Let us contend,
my son, like eagles, from one rock, when they lift
their broad wings against the stream of winds.' We
raised our sails in Carmona. From three ships they
marked my shield on the wave, as I looked on
nightly Ton-thena*, red traveller between the
clouds. Four days came the breeze abroad. Lu-
mon came forward in mist. In winds were its
hundred groves. Sunbeams marked at times its
brown side. White leaped the foamy streams from
all its echoing rocks.

A green field, in the bosom of hills, winds silent
with its own blue stream. Here, midst the waving
of oaks, were the dwellings of kings of old. But
silence, for many dark-brown years, had settled in
grassy Rath-col; for the race of heroes had failed
along the pleasant vale. Duth-carmor was here,
with his people, dark-rider of the wave. Ton-
thena had hid her head in the sky. He bound his
white-bosomed sails. His course is on the hills of
Rath-col to the seats of roes. We came. I sent the
bard, with songs, to call the foe to fight. Duth-
carmor heard him with joy. The king's soul was
like a beam of fire ; a beam of fire, marked with
smoke, rushing, varied through the bosom of night.
The deeds of Duth-carmor were dark, though his
arm was strong.

Night came with the gathering of clouds. By the
beam of the oak we sat down. At a distance stood
Cathlin of Clutha. I saw the changeful soul of the
stranger. As shadows fly over the field of grass,

* Ton-thena, ' fire of the wave,' was the remark-
able star mentioned in the seventh book of Temora,
.vhich directed the course of Larthon to Ireland.

218 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

so various is Cathlin's cheek. It was fair within
locks, that rose on Rath-col's wind. I did not rush
amidst his soul with my words. I bade the song
to rise.

' Oscar of Lego/ I said, 'be thine the secret hill
to-night*. Strike the shield like Morven's kings.
With day thou shalt lead in war. From my rock
I shall see thee, Oscar, a dreadful form ascending
in fight, like the appearance of ghosts amidst the
storms they raise. Why should mine eyes return
to the dim times of old, ere yet the song had bursted
forth, like the sudden rising of winds ? But the
years that are past are marked with mighty deeds.
As the nightly rider of waves looks up to Ton-
thena of beams, so let us turn our eyes to Trenmor,
the father of kings.'

' Wide, in Caracha's echoing field, Carmal had
poured his tribes. They were a dark ridge of waves.
The gray-haired bards were like moving foam on
their face. They kindled the strife around with
their red-rolling eyes. Nor alone were the dwellers
of rocks : a son of Loda was there, a voice in his
own dark land, to call the ghosts from high. On
his hill he had dwelt in Lochlin, in the midst of a
leafless grove. Five stones lifted near their heads.
Loud roared his rushing stream. He often raised
his voice to the winds, when meteors marked their
nightly wings, when the dark-robed moon was
rolled behind her hill. Nor unheard of ghosts
was he ! They came with the sound of eagle-
wings. They turned battle, in fields, before the-
kings of men.

' But Trenmor they turned not from battle. He
drew forward that troubled war; in its dark skirt
was Trathal, like a rising light. It was dark, and
I.oda's son poured forth his signs on night. The
feeble were not before thee, son of other lands !

* This passage alludes to the well-known custom
among the ancient kings of Scotland, to retire from
their army on the night preceding a battle. The
story which Ossian introduces in the next para.-
gr£ph, concerns the fall of the Hruid«,

CATHLIN OF CLUTHA. 249

Then rose the strife of kings about the hill of night ;
but it was soft as two summer gales, shaking their
light wings on a lake. Trenmor yielded to his son,
for the fame of the king had been heard. Trathal
came forth before his father, and the foes failed in
echoing Caracha. The years that are past, my son,
marked with mighty deeds.'

In clouds rose the eastern light. The foe came
forth in arms. The strife is mixed on Rath-col,
like the roar of streams. Behold the contending of
kings! They meet beside the oak. In gleams of
steel the dark forms are lost; such is the meeting
of meteors in a vale by night; red light is scattered
round, and men foresee the storm ! — Duth-carmor
is low in blood ! The son of Ossian overcame !
Not harmless in battle was he, Malvina, hand of
harps !

Nor in the field were the steps of Cathlin. The
stranger stood by a secret stream, where the foam
of Rath-col skirted the mossy stones. — Above bends
the branchy birch, and strews its leaves on wind.
The inverted spear of Cathlin touched at times the
stream. Oscar brought Duth-carmor's mail : his
helmet with its eagle-wing. He placed them be-
fore the stranger, and his words were heard. ' The
foes of thy father have fallen. They are laid in the
field of ghosts. Renown returns to Morven like a
rising wind. Why art thou dark, chief of Clutha ?
Is there cause for grief :'

• Son of Ossian of harps, my soul is darkly sad.
I behold the arms of Cathmol, which he raised in
war. Take the mail of Cathlin, place it high in
Selma's hall, that thou mayest remember the hap-
less in thy distant land.' From white breasts de-
scended the mail. It was the race of kings — the
soft-handed daughter of Cathmol, at the streams of
Clutha ! Duth-carmor saw her bright in the hall ;
he had come by night to Clutha. Cathmol met
him in battle, but the hero fell. Three days dwelt
the foe with the maid. On the fourth she fled in
arms. She remembered the face of kings, and felt
her bursting soul !

Why, maid of Toscar of Lutha, should I tell
M 2

250 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

how Cathlin failed? Her tomb is at rushy Lumon,
in a distant land. Near it were the steps of Sul-
malla, in the days of grief. She raised the song
for the daughter of strangers, and touched the
mournful harp.

Come from the watching of night, Malvina,
lonely beam !

SUL-MALLA OF LUMON.

[This poem, which, properly speaking, is a conti-
nuation of the last, opens with an address to Sul-
malla, the daughter of the king of Inis-huna,
whom Ossian met at the chase as he returned from
the battle of Rath-col. Sul-malla invites Ossian
and Oscar to a feast, at the residence of her father,
who was then absent in the wars. Upon hearing
their names and family, she relates an expedition
of Fingal into Inis-huna. She casually mention-
ing Cathmor, chief of Atha (who then assisted her
father against his enemies), Ossian introduces the
episode of Culgorm and Suran-dronlo, two Scan-
dinavian kings, in whose wars Ossian himself and
Cathmor were engaged on opposite sides. The
story is imperfect, a part of the original being
lost. Ossian, warned in a dream by the ghost of
Trenmor, sets sail from Inis-huna.]

WHO moves so stately on Lumon, at the roar of
the foamy waters ? Her hair falls upon her heaving
breast. White is her arm behind, as slow she bends
the bow. Why dost thou wander in deserts, like
a light through a cloudy field ? The young roes
are panting by their secret rocks. Return thou
daughter of kings ! the cloudy night is near ! It
was the young branch of green Inis-huna, Sul-malla
of blue eyes. She sent the bard from her rock to
bid us to her feast. Amidst the song we sat down
in Cluba's echoing hall. White moved the hands
of Sul-malla on the trembling strings. Half-heard,
amidst the sound was the name of Atha's king — he
that was absent in battle for her own green land.
Nor absent from her soul was he: he came midst
her thoughts by night. Ton-thena looked in from
the sky, and saw her tossing arms.

The sound of shells had ceased. Amidst long
locks Sul-malla rose. She spoke with bended eyes,
and asked of our course through seas; ' for of the

252 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

kings of men are ye, tall riders of the wave.' * Not
unknown,' I said, ' at his streams is he, the father
of our race. Fingal has been heard of at Cluba,
blue-eyed daughter of kings. Not only at Crona's
stream is Ossian and Oscar known. Foes trembled
at our voice, and shrunk in other lands.'

' Not unmarked,' said the maid, ' by Sul-malla,
is the shield of Morven's king. It hangs high in
my father's hall, in memory of the past, when Fin-
gal came to Cluba, in the days of other years.
Loud roared the boar of Culdarnu, in the midst of
his rocks and woods. Inis-huna sent her youths ;
but they failed, and virgins wept over tombs. Care-
less went Fingal to Culdarnu. On his spear rolled
the strength of the woods. He was bright, they
said, in his locks the first of mortal men. Nor at
the feast were heard his words. His deeds passed
from his soul of fire, like the rolling of vapours
from the face of the wandering sun. Not careless
looked the blue eyes of Cluba on his stately steps.
In white bosoms rose the king of Selma, in the
midst of their thoughts by night. But the winds
bore the stranger to the echoing vales of his roes.
Nor lost to other lands was he, like a meteor, that
sinks in a cloud. He came forth, at times, in his
brightness, to the distant dwelling of foes. His
fame came, like the sound of winds, to Cluba's
woody vale.

' Darkness dwells in Cluba of harps : the race of
kings is distant far : in battle is my father Conmor ;
and Lormar, my brother, king of streams. Nor
darkening alone are they; a beam from other lands
is nigh ; the friend of strangers * in Atha, the trou-
bler of the field. High from their misty hills look
forth the blue eyes of Erin, for he is far away,
young dweller of their souls ! Nor harmless, white
hands of Erin ! is Cathmor in the skirts of war ;
he rolls ten thousand before him in his distant
field.'

'Not unseen by Ossian,' I said, 'rushed Cath-

* Cathmor, the son of Borbar-duthol.

SUL-MALLA OF LUMON. »0o

mor from his streams, when he poured his strength
on I-thoruo, isle of many waves ! In strife met two
kings in I-thorno, Culgormand Suran-dronlo : each
from his echoing isle, stern hunters of the hoar !

' They met a boar at a foamy stream : each pierced
him with his spear. They strove for the fame of the
deed, and gloomy battle rose. From isle to isle
they sent a spear, broken and stained with blood,
to call the friends of their fathers in their sounding
arms. Cathmor came from Erin to Culgorm, red-
eyed king : I aided Suran-dronlo in his land of
boars.

• We rushed on either side of a stream, which
roared through a blasted heath. High broken rocks
were round, with all their bending trees. Near were
two circles ofLoda, with the stone of power, where
spirits descended by night in dark-red streams of
fire. There, mixed with the murmur of waters,
rose the voice of aged men ; they called the forms
of night to aid them in their war.

' Heedless I stood with my people, where fell the
foamy stream from rocks. The moon moved red
from the mountain. My song at times arose. Dark,
on the other side, young Cathmor heard my voice,
for he lay beneath the oak in all his gleaming arms.
Morning came : we rushed to the fight ; from wing
to wing is the rolling of strife. They fell like the
thistle's head beneath autumnal winds.

' In armour came a stately form : I mixed my
strokes with the chief. By turns our shields are
pierced : loud rung our steely mails. Hj^ helmet
fell to the ground. In brightness shone the foe.
His eyes, two pleasant flames, rolled between his
wandering locks. I knew Cathmor of Atha, and
threw my spear on earth. Dark we turned, and
silent passed to mix with other foes.

' Not so passed the striving kings. They mixed
in echoing fray, like the meeting of ghosts in the
dark wing of winds. Through either breast rushed
the spears, nor yet lay the foes on earth ! A rock
received their fall ; half-reclined they lay in death.
Each held the lock of his foe : each grimly seemed
to roll his eyes. The stream of the rock leapt on
their shields, and mixed below with blood.

254 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

« The battle ceased in I-thorno. The strangers
met in peace : Cathmor from Atha of streams, and
Ossian king of harps. We placed the dead in earth.
Our steps were by Runar's bay. With the bound-
ing boat afar advanced a ridgy wave. Dark was the
rider of seas, but a beam of light was there, like the
ray of the sun in Stromlo's rolling smoke. It was
the daughter of Suran-dronlo, wild in brightened
looks. Her eyes were wandering flames amidst dis-
ordered locks. Forward is her white arm with the
spear; her high-heaving breast is seen, white as
foamy waves that rise, by turns, amidst rocks.
They are beautiful, but terrible, and mariners call
the winds !

« ' Come, ye dwellers of Loda !' she said ; * come,
Carchar, pale in the midst of clouds ! Sluthmor that
stridest in airy halls ! Corchtur, terrible in winds !
Receive, from his daughter's spear, the foes of Su-
ran-dronlo. No shadow at his roaring streams, no
mildly-looking form, was he ! When he took up his
spear the hawks shook their sounding wings: for
blood was poured around the steps of dark-eyed
Suran-dronlo. He lighted me no harmless beam to
glitter on his streams. Like meteors I was bright,
but I blasted the foes of Suran-dronlo."

Nor unconcerned heard Sul-malla the praise of
Cathmor of shields. He was within her soul, like a
fire in secret heath, which awakes at the voice of
the blast, and sends its beam abroad. Amidst the
song removed the daughter of kings, like the voice
of a summer breeze when it lifts the heads of flow-
ers, and curls the lakes and streams. The rustling
sound gently spreads o'er the vale, softly-pleasing
as it saddens the soul.

By night came a dream to Ossian ; formless stood
the shadow of Trenmor. He seemed to strike the
dim shield on Selma's streamy rock. I rose in my
rattling steel : I knew that war was near ; before
the winds our sails were spread, when Lumon
showed its streams to the morn.

Come from the watching of night, Malvina,
lonely beam !

THE

WAR OF INIS-THONA.

[Reflections on the Poet's youth. An apostrophe
to Selma. Oscar obtains leave to go to Inis-
Thona, an island of Scandinavia. The mourn-
ful story of Argon and Ruro, the two sons of the
king of Inis-Thona. Oscar revenges their death,-
and returns in triumph to Selma. A soliloquy
by the Poet himself.]

OUR youth is like the dream of the hunter on the
hill of heath. He sleeps in the mild beams of the
sun ; he awakes amidst a storm ; the red lightning
flies around: trees shake their heads to the wind !
He looks back with joy on the day of the sun ; and
the pleasant dreams of his rest ! When shall Os-
sian's youth return ? When his ear delight in the
sound of arms ? When shall I, like Oscar, iravel
in the light of my steel ? Come, with your streams,
ye hills of Cona ! listen to the voice of Ossiau.
The song rises, like the sun, in my soul. I feel
the joys of other times.

I behold thy towers, O Selma ! the oaks of thy
shaded wall : thy streams sound in my ear ; thy
heroes gather round. Fingal sits in the midst. He
leans on the shield of Trenmor : his spear stands
against the wall; he listens to the songs of his
bards. The deeds of his arm are heard ; the actions
of the king in his youth ! Oscar had returned from
the chase, and heard the hero's praise. He took
the shield of Branno * from the wall ; his eyes were
filled with tears. Red was the cheek of youth.
His voice was trembling low. My spear shook its
bright head in his hand : he spoke to Morven's
king.

' Fingal ! thou king of heroes ! Ossian, next to

* The father of Everallin, and grandfather to Oscar.

2Ò6 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

him in war ! ye have fought in your youth ; your
names are renowned in song. Oscar is like the
mist of Cona ; I appear and I vanish away. The
bard will not know my name. The hunter will not
search in the heath for my tomb. Let me fight, O
heroes, in the battles of Inis-thona. Distant is the
land of my war ! ye shall not hear of Oscar's fall :
some bard may find me there ; some bard may give
my name to song. The daughter of the stranger
shall see my tomb, and weep over the youth, that
came from afar. The bard shall say, at the feast,
Hear the song of Oscar from the distant land !'

' Oscar,' replied the king of Morven, < thou shalt
fight, son of my fame ! Prepare my dark-bo-
somed ship to carry my hero to Inis-thona. Son of
my son, regard our fame; thou art of the race of
renown : let not the children of strangers say,
Feeble are the sons of Morven! Be thou, in battle,
a roaring storm : mild as the evening sun in peace !
Tell, Oscar, to Inis-thona's king, that Fingal re-
members his youth; when we strove in the combat
together, in the days of Agandecca.'

They lifted up the sounding sail: the wind
whistled through the thongs * of their masts.
Waves lash the oozy rocks : the strength of ocean
roars. My son beheld, from the wave, the land of
groves. He rushed into Runa's sounding bay, and
sent his sword to Annir of spears. The gray-headed
hero rose, when he saw the sword of Fingal. His
eyes were full of tears ; he remembered his battles
in youth. Twice had they lifted the spear before
the lovely Agandecca : heroes stood far distant, as
if two spirits were striving in winds.

« But now,' began the king, ' I am old ; the
sword lies useless in my hall. Thou, who art of
Morven's race ! Annir has seen the battle of spears ;
but now he is pale and withered, like the oak of
Lano. I have no son to meet thee with joy, to bring
thee to the halls of his fathers. Argon is pale in

• Leather thongs were used among the Celtic
nations instead of ropes.

THE WAR OF INIS-THONA. 257

the tomb, and Ruro is no more. My daughter is in
the hall of strangers : she longs to behold my tomb.
Her spouse shakes ten thousand spears; he comes
a cloud of death from Lano. Come, to share the
feast of Annir, son of echoing Morven f*

Three days they feasted together; on the fourth,
Annir heard the name of Oscar. They rejoiced in
the shell *. They pursued the boars of Runa. Be-
side the fount of mossy stones the weary heroes rest.
The tear steals in secret from Annir : he broke the
rising sigh. ' Here darkly rest,' the hero said,
• the children of my youth. This stone is the tomb
of Ruro ; that tree sounds over the grave of Argon.
Do ye hear my voice, O my sons, within your nar-
row house? Or do ye speak in these rustling leaves,
when the winds of the desert rise?'

' King of Inis-thona,' said Oscar, ' how fell the
children of youth ? The wild boar rushes over their
tombs, but he does not disturb their repose. They
pursue deer formed of clouds, and bend their airy
bow. They still love the sport of their youth, and
mount the wind with joy.'

' Cormalo,' replied the king, ' is a chief of ten
thousand spears. He dwells at the waters of Lano +,
which sends forth the vapour of death. He came to
Runa's echoing halls, and sought the honour of the
spear %. The youth was lovely as the first beam of
the sun; few were they who could meet him in
fight ! My heroes yielded to Cormalo ; my daughter
was seized in his love. Argo.i and Ruro returned
from the chase; the tears of their pride descend:
they roll their silent eyes on Runa's heroes, who
had yielded to a stranger. Three days they feasted
with Cormalo: on the fourth young Argon fought.

* ' To rejoice in the shell,' is a phrase for feast-
ing sumptuously and drinking freely.

\ Lano was a lake of Scandinavia, remarkable in
the days cf Ossian for emitting a pestilential va-
pour in autumn.

% By • the honour of the spear,' is meant the
tournament practised among the ancient northern
nations.

258 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

But who could fight with Argon ? Cormalo is over-
come. His heart swelled with the grief of pride ;
he resolved, in secret, to behold the death of my
sons. They went to the hills of Runa: they pur-
sued the dark-brown hinds. The arrow of Cormalo
flew in secret; my children fell in blood. He came
to the maid of his love; to Inis-thona's long-haired
maid. They fled over the desert. Annir remained
alone. Night came on, and day appeared : nor Ar-
gon's voice, nor Ruro's came. At length their
much-loved dog was seen, the fleet and bounding
Runa. He came into the hall and howled ; and
seemed to look towards the place of their fall. We
followed him : we found them here : we laid them by
this mossy stream. This is the haunt of Amur,
when the chase of the hinds is past. I bend like
the trunk of an aged oak ; my tears for ever flow !'

' O Ronnan !' said the rising Oscar, ' Ogar, king
of spears ! call my heroes to my side, the sons of
streamy Morven. To-day we go to Lano's water,
that sends forth the vapour of death. Cormalo will
not long rejoice : death is often at the point of our
swords !'

They came over the desert like stormy clouds,
when the winds roll them along the heath : their
edges are tinged with lightning; the echoing groves
foresee the storm ! The horn of Oscar's battle is
heard ; Lano shook over all its waves. The chil-
dren of the lake convened around the sounding
shield of Cormalo. Oscar fought as he was wont
in war. Cormalo fell beneath his sword : the sons
of dismal Lano fled to their secret vales ! Oscar
brought the daughter of Inis-thona to Annir's
echoing halls. The face of age is bright with joy ;
he blest the king of swords.

How great was the joy of Ossian, when he beheld
the distant sail of his son ! it was like a cloud of
light that rises in the east, when the traveller is sad
in a land unknown ; and dismal night, with her
ghosts, is sitting around in shades! We brought
him with songs to Sclma's halls. Fingal spread
the feast of shells. A thousand bards raised the
name of Oscar : Morveu answered to the sound.

THE WAR OF INIS-THONA. 259

The daughter of Toscar was there; her voice was
like the harp, when the distant sound comes, in the
evening, on the soft- rustling breeze of the vale !

O lay mc, ye that see the light, near some rock
of my hills ! let the thick hazels be around, let the
rustling oak be near. Green be the place of my
rest ; let the sound of the distant torrent be heard.
Daughter of Toscar, take the harp, and raise the
lovely song of Selma; that sleep may overtake my
soul in the midst of joy ; that the dreams of my
youth may return, and the days of the mighty Fin-
gal. Selma ! I behold thy towers, thy trees, thy
shaded wall ! I see the heroes of Morven ; I hear
the song of bards ; Oscar lifts the sword of Cormalo ;
a thousand youths admire its studded thongs.
They look with wonder on my son : they admire
the strength of his arm. They mark the joy of his
father's eyes ; they long for an equal fame. And ye
shall have your fame, O sons of streamy Morven !
My soul is often brightened with song ; I remember
the friends of my youth. But sleep descends in
the sound of the harp ! pleasant dreams begin to
rise ! Ye sons of the chase, stand far distant, nor
disturb my rest. The bard of other times holds
discourse with his fathers ! the chiefs of the days
of old ! Sons of the chase, stand far distant ! dis-
turb not the dreams of Ossian !

SONGS OF SELMA.

[Address to the evening star. Apostrophe to Fin-
gal and his times. Minona sings before the king
the song of the unfortunate Colma; and the
bards exhibit other specimens of their poetical
talents; according to an annual custom esta-
blished by monarchs of the ancient Caledonians.]

STAR of descending night! fair is thy light in
the west ! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy
cloud : thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost
thou behold in the plain ? The stormy winds are
laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar.
Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of
evening are on their feeble wings : the hum of their
course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair
light ? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves
come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely
hair. Farewell, thou silent beam ! Let the light
of Ossian's soul arise !

And it does arise in its strength ! I behold my
departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in
the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery
column of mist ! his heroes are around : and see
the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin ! stately Ryno !
Alpin, with the tuneful voice ! the soft complaint
of Minona ! How are ye changed, my friends, since
the days of Selma's feast ! when we contended, like
gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend
by turns the feebly-whistling grass.

Minona came forth in her beauty : with downcast
look and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the
blast, that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The
souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the
tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of

THE SONGS OF SELMA. 261

Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma —
Colma left alone on the hill, with all her voice of
song ! Salgar promised to come: but the night de-
scended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when
she sat alone on the hill !

Colma. It is night, I am alone, forlorn on the
hill of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain.
The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives
me from the rain ; forlorn on the hill of winds !

Rise, moon ! from behind thy clouds. Stars of
the night, arise ! Lead me, some light, to the place
where my love rests from the chase alone ! his bow
near him, unstrung: his dogs panting around him.
But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy
stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I
hear not the voice of my love ! Why delays my
Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise ?
Here is the rock, and here the tree ! here is the
roaring stream ! Thou didst promise with night
to be here. Ah ! whither is my Salgar gone ? With
thee I would fly from my father; with thee from
my brother of pride. Our race have long been
foes ; we are not foes, O Salgar !

Cease a little while, O wind ! stream, be thou
silent awhile ! let my voice be heard around. Let
my wanderer hear me ! Salgar ! it is Colma who
calls. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my
love ! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming ?
Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is
bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep.
I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not be-
fore him, with tidings of his near approach. Here
I must sit alone !

Who lie on the heath beside me ? Are they my
love and my brother ? Speak to me, O my friends !
To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me; I am
alone ! My soul is tormented with fears ! Ah ! they
are dead ! Their swords are red from the fight. O my
brother ! my brother ! why hast thou slain my Sal-
gar ? why, O Salgar ! hast thou slain my brother ?
Dear were ye both to me ! what shall I say in your
praise ? Thou wert fair on the hill among thou-
sands ! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me ; hear

262 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

my voice ; hear me, sons of my love ! They are si-
lent ; silent for ever ! Cold, cold are their breasts
of clay ! Oh ! from the rock on the hill, from the
top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the
dead ! speak, I will not be afraid ! Whither are ye
gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find
the departed ? No feeble voice is on the gale : no
answer half-drowned in the storm !

I sit in my grief; I wait for morning in my tears !
Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it
not till Colma come. My life flies away like a
dream : why should I stay behind ? Here shall 1 rest
with my friends, by the stream of the sounding
rock. When night comes on the hill; when the
loud winds arise ; my ghost shall stand in the blast,
and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter
shall hear from his booth. He shall fear but love
my voice ! For sweet shall my voice be for my
friends : pleasant were her friends to Colma !

Such was thy song, Minona, softly-blushing
daughter of Torman. Our tears descended for
Colma, and our souls were sad ! Ullin came with his
harp! he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of
Alpin was pleasant : the soul of Ryno was a beam of
fire ! But they had rested in the narrow house : their
voice had ceased in Selma. Ullin had returned, one
day, from the chase, before the heroes fell. He
heard their strife on the hill; their song was soft
but sad ! They mourned the fall of Morar, first of
mortal men ! His soul was like the soul of Fingal ;
his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and
his father mourned : his sister's eyes were full of
tears. Minona'seyes were full of tears, the sister of
car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of
Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees
the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud. I
touched the harp with Ullin; the song of mourning
rose!

Ryno. The wind and the rain are past : calm is
the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven.
Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun. Red
through the stony vale comes down the stream of
the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream ! but

THE SONGS OF SELMA. 263

more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of
Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead!
Bent is his head of age; red his tearful eye. Alpin,
thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill ?
why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood ; as a
wave on the lonely shore ?

Alpiti- My tears, O Ryno ! are for the dead; my
voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou
art on the hill ; fair among the sons of the vale-
But thou shalt fall like Morar ; the mourner shall
sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no
more ; thy bow shall lie in thy hall unstrung .'

Thou wert swift, O Morar ! as a roe on the de-
sert ; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was
as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in
the field. Thy voice was a stream after rain ; like
thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm ;
they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But
when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was
thy brow ! Thy face was like the sun after rain ;
like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the
breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

Narrow is thy dwelling now ! dark the place of
thine abode ! With three steps I compass thy grave,
O thou who wast so great before ! Four stones, with
their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee.
A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass, which whistles
in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of
the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed.
Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with
her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee
forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

Who on his staff is this ? who is this whose head
is white with age ; whose eyes are red with tears ?
who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O
Morar ! the father of no son but thee. He heard of
thy fame in war; he heard of foes dispersed. He
heard of Morar's renown ; why did he not hear of
his wound ? Weep, thou father of Morar ! weep ;
but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep
of the dead ; low their pillow of dust. No more
shall we hear thy voice ; no more awake at thy call.
When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slum-

261 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

berer awake ? Farewell, thou bravest of men ! thou
conqueror in the field ! but the field shall see thee
no more ; nor the dark wood be lightened with the
splendour of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The
song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall
hear of thee ; they shall hear of the fallen Morar !

The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh
of Armin. He remembers the death of his son, who
fell in the days of his youth. Carmor was near the
hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why bursts
the sigh of Armin ? he said. Is there a cause to
mourn ? The song comes, with its music, to melt
and please the soul. It is like soft mist, that, rising
from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green
flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his
strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad,
O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?

Sad I am ! nor small is my cause of woe ! Carmor,
thou hast lost no son ; thou hast lost no daughter
of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives ; and Annira,
fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O
Carmor ! but Armin is the last of his race. Dark
is thy bed, O Daura ! deep thy sleep in the tomb !
When shalt thou awake with thy songs ? with all
thy voice of music ?

Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the
heath ! streams of the mountains, roar ! roar, tem-
pests, in the groves of my oaks ! walk through
broken clouds, O moon ! show thy pale face at in-
tervals ! bring to my mind the night, when all my
children fell; when Arindal the mighty fell ! when
Daura the lovely failed ! Daura ! my daughter ! thou
wert fair ; fair as the moon on Fura ; white as the
driven snow; sweet as the breathing gale. Arindal,
thy bow was strong. Thy spear was swift in the
field. Thy look was like mist on the wave: thy
shield, a red cloud in a storm. Armar, renowned
in war, came, and sought Daura's love. He was not
long refused : fair was the hope of their friends !

Erath, son of Odgal, repined : his brother had
been slain by Annar. He came disguised like a son
of the sea: fair was his skiff on the wave; white
his locks of age; calm his serious brow. Fairest of

THE SOXGS OF SELMA. 0(55

women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin ! a rock
not distant in the sea bears a tree on its side; red
shines the fruit afar ! There Armar waits for Daura.
1 come to carry his love ! She went ; she called on
Acinar. Nought answered, but the son of the roi k *.
Armar ! my love ! my love ! why tormentest thou
me with fear! hear, son of Arnart, hear: it is
Daura who calleth thee ! Erath the traitor fled
laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice ; she
called for her brother and her father. Arind:.l !
Armin ! none to relieve your Daura !

Her voice came over the sea. Arindal my son
descended from the hill, rough in the spoils of the
chase. His arrows rattled by his side ; his bow was
in his hand : five dark gray dogs attended his steps.
He saw fierce Erath on the shore: he seized and
bound him to an oak. Thick wind the thongs of
the hide around his limbs: he loads the wind with
his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat,
to bring Daura to land. Armar came in his wrath,
and let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It sung, it
sunk in thy heart, O Arindal my son ! for Erath
the traitor thou diedst. The oar is stopped at once ;
he panted on the rock and expired. \\ hat is thy
grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy
brother's blood ! The boat is broke in twain. Ar-
mar plunges into the sea, to rescue his Daura, or
die. Sudden a blast from the hill came over the
waves. He sunk, and he rose no more.

Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was
heard to complain. Frequent and loud were her
cries. What could her father do ? All night I stood
on the shore. I saw her by the faint beam of the
moon. All night I heard her cries. Loud was the
wind ; the rain beat hard ou the hill. Before morn-
ing appeared, her voice was weak. It died away,
like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks
.Spent with grief she expired; and left thee, Armin,
alone. Gone is my strength in war ! fallen my
pride among women ! When the storms aloft arise ;

• By « the son of the rock* the Poet means the
echoing back of the human voice from a rock.

N

266 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

when the north lifts the wave on high ; I sit by the
sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock. Often
by the setting moon, I see the ghosts of my chil-
dren. Half-viewless, they walk in mournful con-
ference together. Will none of you speak in pity ?
They do not regard their father. I am sad, O
Carmor, nor small is my cause of woe.

Such were the words of the bards in the days of
song; when the king heard the music of harps, the
tales of other times ! The chiefs gathered from all
their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They
praised the voice of Cona *, the first among a thou-
sand bards ! but age is now on my tongue ; my soul
has failed : I hear, at times, the ghosts of bards,
and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails
on my mind. I hear the call of years ; they say, as
they pass along, Why does Ossian sing ? Soon shall
he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise
his fame ! Roll on, ye dark-brown years ; ye bring
no joy on your course ! Let the tomb open to Os-
sian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song
are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast,
that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded rock, after
the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there ;
the distant mariner sees the waving trees !

* Ossian is sometimes poetically called • the
voice of Cona.'

FINGAL.

BOOK I.

[Cuthullin (general of the Irish tribes, in the mino-
rity of Cormac, king of Ireland) sitting alone be-
neath a tree, at the gate of Tura, a castle of Ul-
ster (the other chiefs having gone on a hunting
party to Cromla, a neighbouring hill), is informed
of the landing of Swaran, king of Lochlin, by
Moran, the son of Fithil, one of his scouts. He
convenes the chiefs; a council is held, and dis-
putes run high about giving battle to the enemy.
Connal, the petty king of Togorma, and an in-
timate friend of Cuthullin, was for retreating, till
Fingal, king of those Caledonians who inhabited
the north-west coast of Scotland, whose aid had
been previously solicited, should arrive; but Cal-
mar, the son of Matha, lord of Lara, a country in
Connaught, was for engaging the enemy imme-
diately. Cuthullin, of himself willing to fight,
went into the opinion of Calmar. Marching to-
wards the enemy, he missed three of his bravest
heroes, Fergus, Duchòmar, and Cithba. Fergus
arriving, tells Cuthullin of the death of the two
other chiefs ; which introduces the affecting epi-
sode of Morna, the daughter of Cormac. The army
of Cuthullin is descried at a distance by Swa-
ran, who sent the son of Arno to observe the mo-
tions of the enemy, while he himself ranged his
forces in order of battle. The son of Arno return-
ing to Swaran, describes to him Cuthullin's cha-
riot, and the terrible appearance of that hero.
The armies engage, but night coming on, leaves
the victory undecided. Cuthullin, according to
the hospitality of the times, sends to Swaran a
formal invitation to a feast, by his bard Carril,
the son of Keinfena. Swaran refuses to come.

268 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Carril relates to Cuthullin the story of Grudar
and Brassolis. A party, by Connal's advice, is
sent to observe the enemy; which closes the
action of the first day.]

CUTHULLIN sat by Tura's wall : by the tree of

the rustling sound. His spear leaned against the
rock. His shield lay on the grass, by his side,
^mid his thoughts of mighty Cairbar, a hero slain
by the chief in war, the scout of ocean comes, Mo-
ran, the son of Fithil !

' Arise,' says the youth, ' Cuthullin, arise. I see
the ships of the north ! Many, chief of men, are the
foe. Many the heroes of the sea-borne Swaran !* —
' Moran!' replied the blue-eyed chief, ' thou ever
tremblest, son of Fithil ! Thy fears have increased
the foe. It is Fingal, king of deserts, with aid to
green Erin of streams.' — • I beheld their chief,'
says Moran, ' tall as a glittering rock. His spear
is a blasted pine. His shield the rising moon! He
sat on the shore! like a cloud of mist on the silent
hill ! Many, chief of heroes ! I said, many are our
hands of war. Well art thou named, the mighty
man; but many mighty men are seen from Tura's
windy walls.

« He spoke, like a wave on a rock, ' Who in this
land appears like me ? Heroes stand not in my pre-
sence : they fall to earth from my hand. Who can
meet Swaran in fight? Who but Fingal, king of
Selma of storms ? Once we wrestled on Malmor ;
our heels overturned the woods. Rocks fell from
their place; rivulets, changing their course, fled
murmuring from our side. Three days we renewed
the strife; heroes scood at a distance and trembled.
On the fourth, Fingal says, that the king of the
ocean fell ! but Swaran says, he stood ! Let dark
Cuthullin yield to him, that is strong as the storms
of his land !' '

' No,' replied the blue-eyed chief, ' I never yield
to mortal man ! Dark Cuthullin shall be great or
dead ! Go, son of Fithil, take my spear. Strike the
sounding shield of Semo. It hangs at Tura's rust-
ling gate. The sound of peace is not its voice ! My

PINGAL. i69

heroes shall hear and obey.' He went. He struck
the bossy shield. The hills, the rocks reply. The
sound spreads along the wood : deer start by the
lake of roes. Curach leaps from the sounding rock !
and Connal of the bloody spear ! Crugal's breast of
snow beats high. The son of Favi leaves the dark-
brown hind. It is the shield of war, said Ronnar !
the spear of Cuthullin, said Lugar ! Son of the sea,
put on thy arms ! Calmar, lift thy sounding steel ;
Puno ! dreadful hero, arise ! Cairbar from thy red
tree of Cromla! Bend thy knee, O Eth ! descend
from the streams of Lena. Ca-olt, stretch thy side
as thou movest along the whistling heath of Mora —
thy side that is white as the foam of the troubled
sea, when the dark winds pour it on rocky Cuthon.

Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of their
former deeds ! Their souls are kindled at the battles
of old; at the actions of other time*. Their eyes
are flames of fire. They roll in search of the foes
of the land. Their mighty hands are on their
swords. Lightning pours from their sides of steel.
They come like streams from the mountains; each
rushes roaring from the hill. Bright are the chiefs
of battle, in the armour of their fathers. Gloomy
and dark their heroes follow, like the gathering of
the rainy clouds behind the red meteors of heaven.
The sounds of crashing arms ascend. The gray
dogs howl between. Unequal bursts the song of
battle. Rocking Cromla echoes round. On Lena's
dusky heath they stand, like mist that shades the
hills of autumn, when broken and dark it settles
high, and lifts its head to heaven.

' Hail,' said Cuthullin, ' sons of the narrow vales !
hail, hunters of the deer ! Another sport is draw-
ing near: it is like the dark colling of that wave on
the coast. Or shall we fight, ye sons of war ! or yield
green Erin to Lochlin ? O Connal ! speak, thou first
of men ! thou breaker of the shields ! thou hast
often fought with Lochlin : wilt thou lift thy fa-
ther's spear ?'

' Cuthullin !' calm the chief replied, « the spear
of Connal is keen. It delights to shine in battle —
to mix with the blood of thousands. But though

270 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

my hand is bent on fight, my heart is for the peace
of Erin *. Behold, thou first in Cormac's war, the
sable fleet of Swaran. His masts are many on our
coasts, like reeds in the lake of Lego. His ships are
forests clothed with mists, when the trees yield by
turns to the squally wind. Many are his chiefs in
battle. Connal is for peace ! Fir/gal would shun
his arm, the first of mortal men ! Fingal, who scat-
ters the mighty, as stormy winds the echoing Con'a,
and night settles with all her clouds on the hill !'

* Fly, thou man of peace,' said Calmar ; ' fly,'
said the son of Matha ; ' go, Connal, to thy silent
hills, where the spear never brightens in war ! Pur-
sue the dark-brown deer of Cromla : stop with thine >
arrows the bounding roes of Lena. But, blue-eyed
son of Semo, Cuthullin, ruler of the field, scatter
thou the sons of Lochlint ! roar through the ranks
of their pride. Let no vessel of the kingdom of
snow bound on the dark-rolling waves of Inistore +
Rise, ye dark winds of Erin, rise ! roar, whirlwinds
of Lara of hinds! Amid the tempest led me die,
torn, in a cloud, by angry ghosts of men ; amid the
tempest let Calmar die, if ever chase was sport to
him, so much as the battle of shields!'

'Calmar !' Connal slow replied, « I never fled,
young son of Matha ! I was swift with my friends
in fight; but small is the fame of Connal! The
battle was won in my presence ! the valiant o\
came ! But, son of Semo, hear my voice, regard the
ancient throne of Cormac. Give wealth and half the
land for peace, till Fingal shall arrive on our coast.
Or, if war be thy choice, I lift the sword and spear.
My joy shall be in the midst of thousands ; my si
shall lighten through the gloom of the fight!'

' To me,' Cuthullin replies, ' pleasant is the
noise of arms ! pleasant as the thunder of heaven,
before the shower of spring ! But gather all the j
shining tribes, that I may view the sons of war

* Erin, a name of Ireland ; from • ear' or ' iar,
west, and * in,' an island,
•f- The Gallic name of Scandinavia in general.
$ The Orkney islands.

FINGAL. 271

Let them pass along the heath, bright as the sun-
shine before a storm ; when the west wind collects
the clouds, and Morven echoes over all her oaks !
But where are my friends in battle — the supporters
of my arm in danger ? Where art thou, white-bo-
somed Càthba ? Where is that cloud in war, Du-
chòmar ? Hast thou left me, O Fergus ! in the day
of the storm ? .Fergus, first in our joy at the feast !
son of Rossa ! arm of death ! comest thou like a roe
from Malmor — like a hart from thy echoing hills ?
Hail, thou son of Rossa ! what shades the soul of
war?'

' Four stones *,' replied the chief, • rise on the
grave of Càthba. These hands have laid in earth
Duehòmar, that cloud in war ! Càthba, son of Tor-
man ! thou wert a sunbeam in Erin. And thou, O
valiant Duchòmar ! a mist of the marshy Lano ;
when it moves on the plains of autumn, bearing
the death of thousands along. Morna ! fairest of
maids ! calm is thy sleep in the cave of the rock !
Tliou hast fallen in darkness, like a star, that
shoots across the desert, when the traveller is
alone, and mourns the transient beam !'

' Say,' said Semo's blue-eyed son, ' say how fell
the chiefs of Erin. Fell they by the sons of Loch-
lin, striving in the battle of heroes ? Or what con-
fines the strong in arms to the dark and narrow
house ?'

« Càthba,' replied the hero, ' fell by the sword
of Duchòmar at the oak of the noisy streams. Du-
chòmar came to Tura's cave ; he spoke to the lovely

• This passage alludes to the manner of burial
among the ancient Scots. They opened a grave six
or eight feet deep : the bottom was lined with fine
clay ; and on this they laid the body of the de-
ceased ; and, if a warrior, his sword, and the heads
of twelve arrows by his side. Above they laid an-
other stratum of clay, in which they placed the
horn of a deer, the symbol of hunting. The whole
was covered with a fine mold, and four stones placed
on end to mark the extent of the grave. These are
the four stones alluded to here.

272 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Morna. • Morna, fairest among women, lovely
daughter of strong-armed Cormac ! Why in the
circle of stones — in the cave of the rock alone ?
The stream murmurs along. The old tree groans in
the wind. The lake is troubled before thee : dark
are the clouds of the sky ! But thou art snow on
the heath : thy hair is the mist of Cromla ; when
it curls on the hill, when it shines to the beam of
the west ! Thy breasts are two smooth rocks seen
from Branno of streams. Thy arms, like two white
pillars, in the halls of the great Fingal.'

• ' From whence,' the fair-haired maid replied,
« from whence, Duchòmar, most gloomy of men ?
Dark are thy brows and terrible ! Red are thy roll-
ing eyes ! Does Swaran appear on the sea ? What
of the foe, Duehòmar ?' ■ From the hill I return, O
Morna, from the hill of the dark-brown hinds.
Three have I slain with my bended yew — three with
my long-bounding dogs of the chase. Lovely daugh-
ter of Cormac, I love thee as my soul ! I have slain
one stately deer for thee. High was his branchy
head — and fleet his feet of wind.' ' Duchòmar !'
calm the maid replied, « I love thee not, thou gloomy
man ! hard is thy heart of roek ; dark is thy terrible
brow. But, Càthba, young son of Torman, thou
art the love of Morna. Thou art a sunbeam in the
day of the gloomy storm. Sawest thou the son of
Torman, lovely on the hill of his hinds ? Here the
daughter of Cormac waits the coming of Càthba !'

' ' Long shall Morna wait,' Duehomar said,
'■ long shall Morna wait for Càthba ! Behold this
sword unsheathed ! here wanders the blood of
Càthba. Long shall Morna wait. He fell by the
stream of Branno. On Croma I will raise his tomb,
daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! Turn on Du-
ehomar thine eyes; his arm is strong as a storm.'
' Is the son of Torman fallen?' said the wildly-
bursting voice of the maid; • is he fallen on his
echoing hills, the youth with the breast of snow ?
the first in the chase of hinds ! the foe of the
strangers of ocean ? Thou art dark • to me, Duchò-

* She alludes to his name, • the dark man.'

FINGAL. 273

mar ; cruel is thine arm to Morna ! Give me that
sword, my foe ! I love the wandering blood of
Càthba !'

' He gave the sword to her tears. She pierced his
manly breast ! He fell, like the bank of a mountain-
stream, and stretching forth his hand, he spoke:
' Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac! thou hast
slain me in youth ! the sword is cold in my breast !
Morna, L feel it cold. Give me to Moina, the maid.
Duchòmar was the dream of her night ! She will
raise my tomb ; the hunter shall raise my fame.
But draw the sword from my breast. Morna, the
steel is cold !' She came, in all her tears, she came ;
she drew the sword from his breast. He pierced
her white side! He spread her fair locks on the
ground ! Her bursting blood sounds from her side :
her white arm is stained with red. Rolling in death
she lay. The cave re-echoed to her sighs.'

' Peace,' said Cuthullin, ' to the souls of the
heroes ! their deeds were great in fight. Let them
ride around me on clouds. Let them show their fea-
tures of war. My soul shall then be firm in danger ;
mine arm like the thunder of heaven ! But be thou
on a moonbeam, O Morna ! near the window of
my rest; when my thoughts are of peace; when the
din of arms is past. Gather the strength of the
tribes! Move to the wars of Erin ! Attend the car of
my battles! Rejoice in the noise of my course!
Place three spears by my side : follow the bound-
ing of my steeds ! that my soul may be strong in
my friends, when battle darkens around the beams
of my steel !'

As rushes a stream of foam from the dark shady
deep of Cromla, when the thunder is travelling
above, and dark-brown night sits on half the hill.
Through the breaches of the tempest look forth the
dim faces of ghosts. So fierce, so vast, so terrible,
rushed on the sons of Erin. The chief, like a whale
of ocean, whom all his billows pursue, poured va-
lour forth, as a stream, rolling his might along the
shore. The sons of Lochlin heard the noise, as the
sound of a winter storm. Swaran struck his bossy
shield : he called the son of Arno. * What murmur
N 2

274 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

rolls along the hill, like the gathered flies of the
eve ? The sons of Erin descend, or rustling winds
roar in the distant wood ! Such is the noise of Gor-
mal, before the white tops of my waves arise. O
son of Arno ! ascend the hill ; view the dark face
of the heath !'

He went. He trembling swift returned. His eyes
rolled wildly around. His heart beat high against
his side. His words were faltering, broken, slow.
•Arise, son of ocean ! arise, chief of the dark-brown
shields ! I see the dark, the mountain-stream of
battle ! the deep-moving strength of the sons of
Erin ! the car of war comes on, like the flame of
death! the rapid car of Cuthullin, the noble son of
Semo ! It bends behind, like a wave near a rock ;
like the sun-streaked mist of the heath. Its sides
are embossed with stones, and sparkle like the sea
round the boat of night. Of polished yew is its
beam ; its seat of the smoothest bone. The sides
are replenished with spears ; the bottom is the foot-
stool of heroes ! Before the right side of the car is
seen the snorting horse ! the high-maned, broad-
breasted, proud, wide-leaping, strong steed of the
hill. Loud and resounding is his hoof: the spread-
ing of his mane above is like a stream of smoke on
a ridge of rocks. Bright are the sides of his steed !
his name is Sulin-Sifadda !

' Before the left side of the car is seen the snort-
ing horse ! The thin-maned, high-headed, strong-
hoofed, fleet, bounding son of the hill : his name is
Dusronnal, among the stormy sons of the sword !
A thousand thongs bind the car on high. Hard po-
lished bits shine in a wreath of foam. Thin thongs,
bright studded with gems, bend on the stately necks
of the steeds— the steeds, that like wreaths of mist
liy over the streamy vales ! The wildness of deer
is in their course, the strength of eagles descending
on the prey. Their noise is like the blast of winter
on the sides of the snow-headed Gormal.

« Within the car is seen the chief; the strong-
armed son of the sword. The hero's name is Cu-
thullin, son of Semo, king of shells. His red cheek
is like my polished yew. The look of his blue-

FINGAL. £75

rolling eye is wide, beneath the dark arch of his
brow. His hair flies from his head like a flame, as
bending forward he wields the spear. Fly, king of
ocean, fly ! He comes, like a storm along the
streamy vale P

« When did 1 fly ?' replied the king; • when fled
Swaran from the battle of spears? When did I
shrink from danger, chief of the little soul ? I met
the storm of Gormal, when the foam of my waves
beat high. I met the storm of the clouds; shall
Swaran fly from a hero? Were Fingal himself be-
fore me, my soul should not darken with fear.
Arise to battle, my thousands ! pour round me like
the echoing main, gather round the bright steel of
your king; strong as the rocks of my land ; that
meet the storm with joy, and stretch their dark
pines to the wind !'

Like autumn's dark storms pouring from two
echoing hills, towards each other approached the
heroes. Like two deep streams from high rocks
meeting, mixing roaring on the plain; loud, rough,
and dark in battle meet Lochlin and Inis-fail.
Chief mixes his strokes with chief, and man with
man : steel, clanging, sounds on steel. Helmets are
cleft on high. Blood bursts and smokes around.
Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts rush
along the sky. Spears fall like the circles of light,
which gild the face of night: as the noise of the
troubled ocean, when roll the waves on high. As
the last peal of thunder in heaven, such is the din
of war! Though Cormac's hundred bards were
there to give the fight to song, feeble was the voice
of a hundred bards to send the deaths to future
times ! For many were the deaths of heroes ; wide
poured the blood of the brave !

Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn the death of the
noble Sith.illin. Let the sons of Fiona rise, on the
lone plains of her lovely Ardan. They fell, like
two hinds of the desert, by the hands of the mighty
Swaran, when, in the midst of thousands, he roared,
like the shrill spirit of a storm. He sits dim on the
clouds of the north, and enjoys the death of the ma-
riner. Nor slept thy hand by thy side, chief of the

276 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

isle of mist • ! many were the deaths of thine ami,
Cuthullin, thou son of Semo ! His sword was like
the beam of heaven when it pierces the sons of the
vale ; when the people are blasted and fall, and all
the hills are burning around. Dusronnal snorted
over the bodies of heroes. Sifadda bathed his hoof
in blood. The battle lay behind them, as groves
overturned on the desert of Cromla; when the blast
has passed the heath, laden with the spirits of night !
Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of
Inistore ! Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou
lovelier than the ghost of the hills, when it moves
in a sunbeam, at noon, over the silence of Morven !
He is fallen : thy youth is low ! pale beneath the
sword of Cuthullin ! No more shall valour raise
thy love to match the blood of kings. Trenar, grace-
ful Trenar died, O maid of Inistore ! His gray dogs
are howling at home : they see his passing ghost.
His bow is in the hall unstrung. No sound is in
the hall of his hinds !

As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's
host came on. As meets a rock a thousand waves,
so Erin met Swaran of spears. Death raises all his
voices around, and mixes with the sounds of shields.
Each hero is a pillar of darkness; the sword a beam
of fire in his hand. The field echoes from wing to
wing, as a hundred hammers, that rise, by turns, on
the red son of the furnace. Who are these on Le-
na's heath, these so gloomy and dark ? Who arc
these like two clouds, and their swords like lightning
above them ? The little hills are troubled around ;
the rocks tremble with all their moss. Who is it but
ocean's son and the car-borne chief of Erin ? Many
are the anxious eyes of their friends, as they see
them dim on the heath. But night conceals the
chiefs in clouds, and ends the dreadful fight !

* The isle of Sky ; not improperly called the
« isle of mist,' as its high hills, which catch the clouds
from the Western Ocean, occasion almost continual
rains.

FINGAL. 277

It was on Cromla's shaggy side that Dorglas had
placed the deer ; the early fortune of the chase, be-
fore the heroes left the hill. A hundred youths col-
lect the heath ; ten warriors wake the fire ; three
hundred choose the polished stones. The feast is
smoking wide ! Cuthullin, chief of Erin's war, re-
sumed his mighty soul. He stood upon his beamy
spear, and spoke to the son of songs — to Carril of
other times, the gray-headed son of Kinfena. ' Is
this feast spread for me alone, and the king of Loch-
lin on Erin's shore, far from the deer of his hills,
and sounding halls of his feasts ? Rise, Carril of
other times, carry my words to Swaran. Tell him
from the roaring of waters, that Cuthullin gives his
feast. Here let him listen to the sound of my
groves, amidst the clouds of night, for cold and
bleak the blustering winds rush over the foam of
his seas. Here let him praise the trembling harp,
and hear the songs of heroes !'

Old Carril went with softest voice. He called the
king of dark-brown shields! 'Rise, from the skins of
thy chase; rise, Swaran; king of groves ! Cuthullin
gives the joy of shells. Partake the feast of Erin's
blue-eyed chief!' He answered like the sullen sound
of Crcmla before a storm. ' Though all thy daugh-
ters, Inis-fail, should stretch their arms of snow,
should raise the heavingsof their breasts, and softly
ro!l their eyes of love, yet fixed as Lochlin's thou-
sand rocks here Swaran should remain, till morn,
with the young beams of the east, shall light me to
the death of Cuthullin. Pleasant to my ear is Loch-
lin's wind ! It rushes over my seas ! It speaks aloft
in all my shrouds, and brings my greeu forests to
my mind— the green forests of Gormal, which often
echoed to my winds when my spear was red in the
chase of the boar. Let dark Cuthullin yield to me
the ancient throne of Cormac, or Erin's torrents
shall show from their hills the red foam of the blood
of his pride !'

' Sad is the sound of Swaran's voice,' said Carril
of other times! 'Sad to himself alone,' said the
blue-eyed son of Semo. ' But, Carril, raise the voice
on high; tell the deeds of other times. Send thou

S78 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

the night away in song, and give the joy of grief.
For many heroes and maids of love have moved on
Inis-fail, and lovely are the songs of woe that are
heard in Albion's rocks, when the noise of the chase
is past, and the streams of Cona * answer to the
voice of Ossian.'

' In other days,' Carril replies, ' came the sons
of ocean to Erin; a thousand vessels bounded on
waves to Ullin's lovely plains. The sons of Inis-fail
arose to meet the race of dark-brown shields. Cair-
bar, first of men, was there, and Grudar, stately
youth ! Long had they strove for the spotted bull
that lowed on G jlbun's echoing heath. Each claimed
him as his own. Death was often at the point of
their steel. Side by side the heroes fought; the
strangers of ocean fled. Whose name was fairer
on the hill than the name of Cairbar and Grudar ?
But, ah ! why ever lowed the bull on Golbun's
echoing heath? They saw him leaping like snow.
The wrath of the chiefs returned.'

' On Lubar's t grassy banks they fought; Grudar
fell in his blood. Fierce Cairbar came to the vale,
where Brassolis, fairest of h'is sisters, all alone,
raised the song of grief. She sung of the actions
of Grudar, the youth of her secret soul. She
mourned him in the field of blood, but still she
hoped for his return. Her white bosom is seen from
her robe, as the moon from the clouds of night,
when its edge heaves white on the view, from the
darkness which covers its orb. Her voice was
softer than the harp to raise the song of grief. Her
soul was fixed on Grudar. The secret look of her
eye was his. ' When slialt thou come in thine
arms, thou mighty in the war?'

' ' Take, Brassolis,' Cairbar came and said, • take,
Brassolis, this shield of blood. Fix it on high within
my hall, the armour of my foe !' Her soft heart beat
against her side. Distracted, pale, she flew. She

• The Cona here mentioned is that small river
that runs through Glcneo in Argyleshire.

t Lubar, a river in Ulster. ' Labhar,' loud, noisy.

FIXGAL. 679

f nind her youth in all his blood ; she died on Crom-
la's heath. Here rests their dust, Cuthullin ! these
lonely yews sprung from their tombs, and shade
them from the storm. Fair was Brassolis on the
plain ! Stately was Grudar on the hill ! The bard
shall preserve their names, and send them down to
future times !'

' Pleasant is thy voice, O Carril,' said the blue-
eyed chief of Erin. ' Pleasant are the words of other
times ! They are like the calm shower of spring,
when the sun looks on the field, and the light cloud
flies over the hills. O strike the harp in praise of my
love, the lonely sunbeam of Dunscaith ! Strike the
harp in the praise of Bragèla, she that I left in the
isle of mist, the spouse of Semo's son ! Dost thou
raise thy fair face from the rock to find the sails of
Cuthullin ? The sea is rolling distant far : its white
foam deceives thee for my sails. Retire, for it is
night, my love; the dark winds sing in thy hair.
Retire to the halls of my feasts, think of the times
that are past. I will not return till the storm of war
is ceased. O Connal ! speak of war and arms, and
send her from my mind. Lovely with her flowing
hair is the white-bosomed daughter of Sorglan.'

Connal, slow to speak, replied, ' Guard against
the race of ocean. Send thy troop of night abroad,
and watch the strength of Swaran. Cuthullin, I am
for peace till the race of Selma come, till Fingal
come, the first of men, and beam, like the sun, on
our fields !' The hero struck the shield of alarms,
the warriors of the night moved on. The rest lay
in the heath of the deer, and slept beneath the
dusky wind. The ghosts* of the lately dead were
near, and swam on the gloomy clouds ; and far
distant, in the dark silence of Lena, the feeble
voices of death were faintly heard.

* It was long the opinion of the ancient Scots,
that a ghost was heard shrieking near the place
where a death was to happen soon after.

FINGAL.

BOOK II.

[The ghost of Crugal, one of the Irish heroes who
was killed in battle, appearing to Connal, foretels
the defeat of Cuthullin in the next battle, and
earnestly advises him to make peace with Swaran.
Connal communicates the vision; but Cuthullin
is inflexible ; from a principle of honour he
would not be the first to sue for peace, and he
resolved to continue the war. Morning comes ;
Swaran proposes dishonourable terms to Cuthul-
lin, which are rejected. The battle begins, and
is obstinately fought for some time, until, upon
the flight of Grumal, the whole Irish army give
way. Cuthullin and Connal cover their retreat.
Carril leads them to a neighbouring hill, whither
they are soon followed by Cuthullin himself, who
descries the fleet of Fingal making towards the
coast; but night coming on, he lost sight of it
again. Cuthullin, dejected after his defeat, at-
tributes his ill success to the death of Ferda his
friend, whom he had killed some time before.
Carril, to show that ill success did not always at-
tend those who innocently killed their friends,
introduces the episode of Comal and Galvina.]

CONNAL lay by the sound of the mountain
stream, beneath the aged tree. A stone, with its
moss, supported his head. Shrill, through the
heath of Lena: he heard the voice of night. At
distance from the heroes he lay; the son of the
sword feared no foe ! The hero beheld, in his rest,
a dark-red stream of fire rushing down from the
hill. Crugal sat upon the beam, a chief who fell in
fight. He fell by the hand of Swaran, striving in the
battle of heroes. His face is like the beam of the
setting moon. His robes are of the clouds of the

FINGAL. 281

hill. His eyes are two decaying flames. Dark is
the wound of his breast ! * Crugal,' said the
mighty Connal, 'son of Dedgal famed on the hill
of hinds ! Why so pale and sad, thou breaker of the
shields? Thou hast never been pale for fear ! What
disturbs the departed Crugal!' Dim, and in tears,
he stood and stretched his pale hand over the hero.
Faintly he raised his feeble voice, like the gale of
the reedy Lego.

1 My spirit, Connal, is on my hills : my course on
the sands of Erin. Thou shalt never talk with Cru-
gal, nor find his lone steps in the heath. I am light
as the blast of Cromla. I move like the shadow of
mist ! Connal, son of Colgar, I see a cloud of death :
it hovers dark over the plains of Lena. The sons of
green Erin must fall. Remove from the field of
ghosts.' Like the darkened moon he retired, in the
midst of the whistling blast. ' Stay,' said the mighty
Connal ; ' stay, my dark-red friend. Lay by that
beam of heaven, son of the windy Cromla ! What
cave is thy lonely house? What green-headed hill
the place of thy repose ? Shall we not hear thee in
the storm ? in the noise of the mountain-stream ?
when the feeble sons of the wind come forth, and,
scarcely seen, pa-s over the desert?'

The soft-voiced Connal rose, in the midst of his
sounding arms. He struck his shield above Cuthul-
lin. The son of battle waked. ' Why,' said the
ruler of the car, ' comes Connal through my night ?
My spear might turn against the sound, and Cuthul-
lin mourn the death of his friend. Speak, Connal ;
son of Colgar, speak ; thy counsel is the sun of hea-
ven !' 'Son of Semo!' replied the chief, ' the
ghosts of Crugal came from his cave. The stars
dim-twinkled through his form. His voice was like
the sound of a distant stream. He is a messenger
of death ! He speaks of the dark and narrow house !
Sue for peace, O chief of Erin ! or flyover the heath
of Lena.' .

« He spoke to Connal,' replied the hero, 'though
stars dim-twinkled through his form ! Son of Colgar,
it was the wind that murmured across thy ear. Or
if it was the form of Crugal, why didst thou not

282 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

force him to my sight ? Hast thou inquired where is
his cave ? the house of that son of wind ? My sword
might find that voice, and force his knowledge from
Crugal. But small is his knowledge, Connal ; he
was here to-day. He could not have gone beyond
our hills ! who could tell him there of our fall ?'
« Ghosts fly on clouds, and ride on winds,' said
Connal's voice of wisdom. ' They rest together in
their caves, and talk of mortal men.'

' Then let them talk of mortal men; of every man
but Erin's chief. Let me be forgot in their cave. I
will not fly from Swaran ! If fall I must, my tomb
shall rise amidst the fame of future times. The
hunter shall shed a tear on my stone; sorrow shall
dwell around the high-bosomed Bragèla. I fear not
death — to fly I fear ! Fingal has seen me victorious !
Thou dim phantom of the hill, show thyself to me !
come on thy beam of heaven, show me my death in
thine hand ; yet I will not fly, thou feeble son of
the wind ! Go, son of Colgar, strike the shield. It
hangs between the spears. Let my warriors rise
to the sound in the midst of the battles of Erin.
Though Fingal delays his coming with the race of
his stormy isles, we shall fight, O Colgar's son, and
die in the battle of heroes !'

The sound spreads wide. The heroes rise, like
the breaking of a blue-rolling wave. They stood
on the heath, like oaks with all their branches round
them, when they echo to the stream of frost, and
their withered leaves are rustling to the wind ! High
Cromla's head of clouds is gray. Morning trembles
on the half-enlightened ocean. The blue mist swims
slowly by, and hides the sons of Inis-fail !'

' Rise ye,' said the king of the dark-brown
shields, " ye that came from Lochlin's waves. The
sons of Erin have fled from our arms; pursue them
over the plains of Lena ! Morla, go to Cormae's
hall. Bid them yield to Swaran, before his people
sink to the tomb, and silence spread over his isle.'
They rose, rustling like a flock of sea-fowl, when
the waves expel them from the shore. Their sound
was like a thousand streams, that met in Cona's
vale, when, after a stormy night, they turn

FIXGAL. 283

their dark eddies beneath the pale light of the
inorn.

As the dark shades of autumn fly over the hills of
grass, so gloomy, dark, successive came the chiefs
of Lochlin's echoing woods. Tall as the stag of
Morven, moved stately before them the king. His
shining shield is on his side, like a flame on the heath
at night, when the world is silent and dark, and the
traveller sees some ghost sporting in the beam !
Dimly gleam the hills around, and show indi-
stinctly their oaks! A blast from the troubled ocean
removed the settled mist. The sons of Erin appear,
like a ridge of rocks on the coast; when mari-
ners, on shores unknown, are trembling at veering
winds !

* Go, Morla, go/ said the king of Lochlin, 'offer
peace to these. Offer the terms we give to kings
when nations bow down to our swords — when t!ie
valiant are dead in war; when virgins weep on the
field!' Tall Morla came, the son of Swartli, and
stately strode the youth along ! He spoke to Erin's
blue-eyed chief, among the lesser heroes. « Take
Swaran's peace,' the warrior spoke, — « the peace he
gives to kings when nations bow to his sword. Leave
Erin's streamy plains to us, and give thy spouse
and dog. Thy spouse high-bosomed heaving fair !
Thy dog that overtakes the wind ! Give these to
prove the weakness of thine arm ; live then beneath
our power!'

' Tell Swaran, tell that heart of pride, Cuthullin
never yields. I give him the dark-rolling sea; I
give his people graves in Erin. But never shall a
stranger have the pleasing sunbeam of my love.
No deer shall fly on Lochlin's hills, before swift-
footed Luiith.' ' Vain ruler of the car,' said Morla,
' wilt thou then fight the king ? the king whose ships
of many groves could carry off thine isle ? So little
is thy green-hilled Erin to him who rules the
stormy waves !' ' In words I yield to many, Morla —
my sword shall yield to none. Erin shall own the
sway of Cormac, while Connal and Cuthullin live !
O Connal, first of mighty men, thou hearest the
words of Morla. Shall thy thoughts then be of

28 1 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

peace, thou breaker of the shields ? Spirit of fallen
Crugal, why didst thou threaten us with death ?
The narrow house shall receive me in the midst of
the light of renown. Exalt, ye sons of Erin, exalt
the spear and bend the bow : rush on the foe in
darkness, as the spirits of stormy nights !'

Then dismal, roaring, fierce, and deep the gloom
of battle poured along, as mist that is rolled on a
valley when storms invade the silent sunshine of
heaven. Cuthullin moves before me in arms, like
an angry ghost before a cloud, when meteors en-
close him with fire ; when the dark winds are in his
hand. Carril, far on the heath, bids the horn of
battle sound. He raises the voice of song, and
pours his soul into the minds of the brave.

' Where,' said the mouth of the song, ' where is
the fallen Crugal ? He lies forgot on earth ; the hall
of shells* is silent. Sad is the spouse of Crugal.
She is a stranger in the hall of her grief. But who
is she that, like a sunbeam, flies before the ranks
of the foe ? It is Dcgrena, lovely fair, the, spouse of
fallen Crugal. Her hair is on the wind behind. Her
eye is red; her voice is shrill. Pale, empty is thy
Crugal now ! His form is in the cave of the hill.
He comes to the ear of rest; he raises his feeble
voice, like the humming of the mountain-bee, like
the collected flies of the eve ! But Degrena falls like
a cloud of the morn ; the sword of Lochlin is in her
side. Cairbar, she is fallen, the rising thought of
thy youth. She is fallen, O Cairbar, the thought of
thy youthful hours !

Fierce Cairbar heard the mournful sound. He
rushed along like ocean's whale. He saw the death
of his daughter: he roared in the midst of thou-
sands. His spear met a son of Lochlin ! battle
spreads from wing to wing ! As a hundred winds
in Lochlin's groves, as fire in the pines of a hundred

* The ancient Scots, as well as the present High-
landers, drank in shells ; hence it is that we so often
meet, in the old poetry, with ' chief of shells/ and
♦ the hall of shells,'

FIXG.VL. 285

hills, so loud, so ruinous, so vast the ranks of men
are hewn down. Cuthullin cut off heroes like
thistles; Swaran wasted Erin. Curach fell by his
hand, Cairbai of the bossy shield ! Morglan lies in
lasting rest! Ca-olt trembles as he dies! His
white breast is stained with blood; his yellow hair
stretched in the dust of his native land ! He often
had spread the feast where he fell. He often there
had raised the voice of the harp, when his dogs
leaped round for joy, and the youths of the chase
prepared the bow !

Still Swaran advanced, as a stream that bursts
from the desert. The little hills are rolled in its
course, the rocks are half-sunk by its side ! But
Cuthullin stood before him, like a hill, that catches
the clouds of heaven. The winds contend on its
head of pines, the hail rattles on its rocks. But
firm in its strength it stands, and shades the silent
vale of Cona! So Cuthullin shaded the sons of Erin,
and stood in the midst of thousands. Blood rises
like the fount of a rock from panting heroes around.
But Erin falls on either wing, like snow in the day
of the sun.

« O sons of Erin,' said Grumal, « Lochlin con-
quers on the field. Why strive we as reeds against
the wind ? Fly to the hill of dark-brown hinds.'
He fled like the stag of Morven ; his spear is a trem-
bling beam of light behind him. Few fled with
Grumal, chief of the little soul: they fell in the bat-
tle of heroes on Lena's echoing heath. High on his
car of many gems the chief of Erin stood. He slew
a mighty son of Lochlin, and spoke in haste to
Connal. * O Connal, first of mortal men, thou
hast taught this arm of death ! Though Erin's sons
have fled, shall we not fight the foe ? Carril, son of
other times, carry my friends to that bushy hill.
Here, Connal, let us stand like rocks, and save our
flying friends.'

Connal mounts the car of gems. They stretch
their shields, like the darkened moon, the daughter
of the starry skies, when she moves a dun circle
through heaven, and dreadful change is expected
by men. Sithfadda panted up the hill, and Sronnal

286 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

haughty steed. Like waves behind a whale, behind
them rushed the foe. Now on the rising side of
Cromla stood Erin's few sad sons : like a grove
through which the flame had rushed, hurried on by
the winds of the stormy night ; distant, withered,
dark they stand, with not a leaf to shake in the vale.

Cuthullin stood beside an oak. He rolled his red
eye in silence, and heard the wind in his bushy hair;
the scout of ocean came, Moran the son of Fithil.
'The ships,' he cried, 'the ships of the lonely-
isles ! Fingal comes, the first of men, the breaker
of the shields ! The waves foam before his black
prows ! His masts with sails are like groves in
clouds !' — * Blow,' said Cuthullin, ' blow, ye winds
that rush along my isle of mist. Come to the death
of thousands, O king of resounding Selma! Thy sails,
my friend, are to me the clouds of the morning ; thy
ships the light of heaven ; and thou thyself a pillar
of fire that beams on the world by night. O Connal,
first of men, how pleasing in grief are our friends !
But the night is gathering around. Where now are
the ships of Fingal ? Here let us pass the hours
of darkness ; here wish for the moon of heaven !'

The winds come down on the woods. The torrents
rush from the rocks. Rain gathers round the head
of Cromla. The red stars tremble between the flying
clouds. Sad, by the side of a stream, whose sound
is echoed by a tree, sad by the side of a stream the
chief of Erin sits. Connal, son of Colgar, is there,
and Carril of other times. * Unhappy is the hand
of Cuthullin,' said the son of Semo, ' unhappy is
the hand of Cuthullin since he slew his friend!
Ferda, son of Damman, I loved thee as myself!'

' How, Cuthullin, son of Semo, how fell the
breaker of the shields ? Well I remember,' said Con-
nal, • the son of the noble Damman. Tall and fair,
he was like the rainbow of heaven.' Ferda from
Albion came, the chief of a hundred hills. In Mu-
ri's* hall he learned the sword, and won the friend-

A place in Ulster.

FINGAL. 287

ship of Cuthullin. We moved to the chase toge-
ther: one was our bed in the heath.

Deugala was the spouse of Cairbar, chief of the
plains of Ullin. She was covered with the light of
beauty, but her heart was the house of pride. She
loved that sunbeam of youth, the son of the noble
Damman. ' Cairbar,' said the white-armed Deu-
gala, « give me half of the herd. No more I will re-
main in your halls. Divide the herd, dark Cairbar !'
' Let Cuthullin,' said Cairbar, « divide my herd
on the hill. His breast is the seat of justice. De-
part, thou light of beauty !' I went and divided the
herd. One snow-white bull remained. I gave that
bull to Cairbar. The wrath of Deugala rose !

' Son of Damman,' begun the fair, ' Cuthullin
hath pained my soul. I must hear of his death, or
Lubar's stream shall roll over me. My pale ghost
shall wander near thee, and mourn the wound of my
pride. Pour out the blood of Cuthullin, or pierce
this heaving breast.' ' Deugala,' said the fair
haired youth, ' how shall I slay the son of Sclmo ?
He is the friend of my secret thoughts. Shall I then
lift the sword ?' She wept three days before the
chief ; on the fourth he said he would fight. • I
will fight my friend, Deugala ; but may I fall by his
sword ! Could I wander on the hill alone ? Could
I behold the grave of Cuthullin ?' We fought on the
plain of Muri. Our swords avoid a wound. They
slide on the helmets of steel, or sound on the slip-
pery shields. Deugala was near with a smile, and
said to the son of Damman : < Thine arm is feeble,
sunbeam of youth ! Thy years are not strong for
steel. Yield to the son of Selmo. He is a rock
on Malrcor.'

The tear is in the eye of youth. He faltering
said to me: ' Cuthullin, raise thy bossy shield.
! Defend thee from the hand of thy friend. My soul
is laden with grief, for I must slay the chief of
men.' I sighed as the wind in the cleft of a rock. I
lifted high the edge of my steel. The sunbeam of
battle fell—the first of Cuthullin's friends ! Unhappy
is the hand of Cuthullin since the hero fell.

288 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

« Mournful is thy tale, son of the car,' said Car-
ril of other times. ' It sends my soul back to the
ages of old, to the days of other years. Often have
I heard of Comal, who slew the friend he loved ;
yet victory attended his steel : the battle was con-
sumed in his presence !'

Comal was the son of Albion, ihe chief of a hun-
dred hills! His deer drunk of a thousand streams.
A thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs.
His face was the mildness of youth; his hand the
death of heroes. One was his love, and fair was
she, the daughter of the mighty Conloch. She ap-
peared like a sunbeam among women. Her hair
was the wing of the raven. Her dogs were taught
to the chase. Her bow-string sounded on the winds.
Her soul was fixed on Comal. Often met their eyes
of love. Their course in the chase was one. Happy
were their words in secret. But Grumal loved
the maid, the dark chief of the gloomy Ardven.
He watched her lone steps in the heath, the foe of
unhappy Comal !

One day, tired of the chase, when the mist had
concealed their friends, Comal and the daughter of
Conloch met in the cave of Ronan. It was the
wonted haunt of Comal. Its sides were hung with
his arms. A hundred shields of thongs were there ;
a hundred helms of sounding steel. * Rest here,'
he said, ' my love, Galbina : thou light of the cave
of Ronan ! A deer appears on Mora's brow. I go ;
but I will soon return.' — ' I fear,' she said, ' dark
Grumal, my foe: he haunts the cave of Ronan ! I
will rest among the arms; but soon return, my love.

He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of
Conloch would try his love. She clothed her fair
sides with his armour ; she strode from the cave of
Ronan ! He thought it was his foe. His heart beat
high. His colour changed, and darkness dimmed
his eyes. He drew the bow. The arrow flew. Gal-
bina fell in blood ! He run with wildness in his
steps ! he called the daughter of Conloch. No an-
swer in the lonely rock. Where art thou, O my
love ? He saw at length her heaving heart, beating
around the arrow he threw. • O Conloch's daugh-

FINGAL. 239

ei ' U it thou ? He sunk upon her breast ! The
hunters found the hapless pair? He afterwards
walked the hill. But many and silent were his
steps round the dark dwelling of his love. The
fleet of the ocean came. He fought ; the strangers
fled. He searched for death along the field. But
who could slay the mighty Comal ? He threw away
his dark-brown shield. An arrow found his manly
breast. He sleeps with his loved Galbina at the
noise of the sounding surge ! Their green tombs
are seen by the mariner when he bounds on the
waves of the north.

F I N G A L.

BOOK III.*

[Cuthullin, pleased with the story of Carril, insists
with that bard for more of his songs. He relates
the actions of Fiugal in Lochlin, and death of
Agandecca, the beautiful sister of Swaran. He
had scarce finished, when Calmar, the son of Ha-
tha, who had advised the first battle, came wound-
ed from the field, and told them of Swaran's de-
sign to surprise the remains of the Irish army.
He himself proposes to withstand singly the whole
force of the enemy, in a narrow pass, till the
Irish should make good their retreat. Cuthullin,
touched with the gallant proposal of Calmar, re-
solves to accompany him, and orders Carril to
carry off the few that remained of the Irish.
Morning comes, Calmar dies of his wounds ; and
the ships of the Caledonians appearing, Swaran
gives over the pursuit of the Irish, and returns
to oppose Fingal's landing. Cuthullin, ashamed,
after his defeat, to appear before Fingal, retires
to the cave of Tura. Fingal engages the enemy,
puts thern to flight; but the coming on of night
makes the victory not decisive. The king, who
had observed the gallant behaviour of his grand-
son Oscar, gives him advice concerning his con-
duct in peace and war. He recommends to him
to place the example of his fathers before his
eyes, as the best model for his conduct ; which
introduces the episode concerning Fainasòllis,
the daughter of the king of Craca, whom Fingal
had taken under his protection in his youth.
Fillan and Oscar are despatched to observe the
motions of the enemy by night: Gaul, the son of j

* The second night, since the opening of the poem,
continues; and Cuthullin, Connal and Carril, still
sit in the place described in the preceding book.

PING At. 291

Moral, desires the command of the army in the
next battle, which Fingal promises to give him.
Some general reflections of the poet close the
third day.]

-' PLEASANT are the words of the song,' said
Cuthullin ! ' lovely the talcs of other times ! They
are like the calm dew of the morning on the hill
of roes ! when the sun is faint on its side, and the
lake is settled and blue in the vale. OCarril, raise
again thy voice ! let me hear the song of Selma:
which was sung in my halls of joy, when Fingal,
king of shields, was there, and glowed at the deeds
of his fathers.'

■ Fingal ! thou dweller of battle,' said Carril,
■ early were thy deeds in arms. Lochlin was con-
sumed in thy wrath, when thy youth strove in the
beauty of maids. They smiled at the fair-blooming
fc-ce of the hero ; but death was in his hands. lie
was strong as the waters of Lora. His followers
were the roar of a thousand streams. They took
the king of Lochlin in war ; they restored him to
his ships. His big heart swelled with pride; the
death of the youth was dark in his soul. For none
ever, but Fingal, had overcome the strength of the
mighty Starno. He sat in the hall of his shells in
Lochlin's woody land. He called the gray-haired
Snivan, that often sung round the circle * of Loda ;
when the stone of power heard his voice, and battle
turned in the field of the valiant !

" Go; gray-haired Snivan/ Starno said, ' go to
Ardveu's sea-surrounded rocks. Tell to the king of
Selma ; he the fairest among his thousands ; tell him
I give to him my daughter, the loveliest maid that
ever heaved a breast of snow. Her arms are white
as the foam of my waves. Her soul is generous and
mild. Let him come with his bravest heroes to the
daughter of the secret hall !' Snivan came to Scl-
ma's hall : fair-haired Fingal attended his steps.

• This passage most certainly alludes to the reli-
gion of Lochlin, and ' the stone of power,' here
nentioned, is the image of one of the deities of
Scandinavia.

292 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

His kindled soul flew to the maid, as he bounded on
the waves of the north. « Welcome/ said the dark-
browed Starno, « welcome, king of rocky Morven !
welcome his heroes of might, sous cf the distant
isle ! Three days within my halls shall we feast ;
three days pursue my boars; that your fame may
reach the maid who dwells in the secret hall.'

' Starno designed their death. He gave the feast
of shells. Fingal, who doubted the foe, kept on his
arms of steel. The sons of death were afraid : they
fled from the eyes of the king. The voice of spright-
ly mirth arose. The trembling harps of joy were
strung. Bards sung the battles of heroes : they sung
the heaving breast of love. Ullin, Fingal's bard,
was there : the sweet voice of resounding Cona.
He praised the daughter of Lochlin ; and Morven's*
high-descended chief. The daughter of Lochlin
overheard. She left the hall of her secret sigh !
She came in all her beauty, like the moon from
the cloud of the east. Loveliness was round her as
light. Her steps were the music of songs. She saw
the youta and loved him. He was the stolen sigh
of her soul. Her blue eyes rolled on him in secret :
she blest the chief of resounding Morven.

' The third day, with all its beams, shone bright
on the wood of boars. Forth moved the dark-
browed Starno ; and Fingal, king of shields. Half
the day they spent in the chase ; the spear of Selma
•was red in blood. It was then the daughter of
Starno, with blue eyes rolling in tears^it was then
she came with her voice of love, and spoke to the
king of Morven. ' Fingal, high-descended chief,
trust not Starno's heart of pride. Within that
wood he has placed his chiefs. Beware of the wood
of death. But remember, son of the isle, remember
Agandecca ; save me from the wrath of my father,
king of the windy Morven !'

« The youth with unconcern went on; his heroes
by his side. The sons of death fell by his hand ;

* All the north-west coast of Scotland probably
went of old under the name of Morven, which sig-
nifies a ridge of very high hills.

FIN'GAL. aSS

and Gormal echoed around ! Before the halls of
Sterna the sous of the chase convened. The king's
dark brows were like clouds; his eyes like meteors
of night. 'Bring hither,' he said, ' Agandecca to
her lovely king of Morven ! His hand is stained
with the blood of my people ; her words have not
been in vain !' She came with the red eye of tears.
She came with loosely-flowing locks. Her white
breast heaved with broken sighs, like the foam of
the streamy Lubar. Starno pierced her side with
steel. She fell, like a wreath of snow, which slides
from the. rocks of Ronan ; when the woods are still,
and echo deepens in the vale ! Then Fingal eyed
his valiant chiefs, his valiant chiefs took arms !
The gloom of battle roared ; Lochlin fled or died.
Pale in his bounding ship he closed the maid of the
softest soul. Her tomb ascends on Ardven ; the
sea roars round her narrow dwelling.'

« Blessed be her soul !' said Cuthullin ; ' blessed
be the mouth of the song! Strong was the youth
of Fingal ; strong is his arm of age. Lochlin shall
fall again before the king of echoing Morven.
Show thy fr.ee from a cloud, O moon ! light his
white sails on the wave: and if any strong spirit of
heaven sits on that low-hung cloud, turn his dark
shins from the rock, thou rider of the storm !'

Such were the words of Cuthullin at the sound
of the mountain-stream; when Calmar ascended
the hill, the wounded son of Math 3. From the
field he came in his blood. He leaned on his
bending spear. Feeble is the arm of battle ! but
strong the soul of the hero ! ' Welcome ! O son of
Matha,' said Connal, • welcome art thou to thy
friends ! Why bursts that broken sigh from the
breast of him who never feared before?' 'And
never, Connal, will he fear, chief of the pointed
steel ! My soul brightens in danger — in the noise
of arms. I am of the race of battle. My fathers
never feared.

' Cormar was the first of my race. He sported
through the storms of waves. His black skiff
bounded on ocean ; he travelled on the wings of
the wind. A spirit once embroiled the night. Seas

294 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

swell and rocks resound. Winds drive along the
clouds. The lightning flies on wings of fire. He
feared, and came to land, then blushed that he
feared at all. He rushed again among the waves,
to find the son of the wind. Three youths guide
the bounding bark ; he stood with sword un-
sheathed. When the low-hung vapour passed, he
took it by the curling head. He searched its dark
womb with his steel. The son of the wind forsook
the air. The moon and stars returned ! Such was
the boldness of my race. Calmar is like his fathers.
Danger flies from the lifted sword. They best suc-
ceed who dare!

" But now, ye sons of green Erin, retire from
Lena's bloody heath. Collect the sad remnant of
our friends, and join the sword of Fingal. I heard
the sound of Lochliu's advancing arms ! Calmar
will remain and fight. My voice shall be such, my
friends, as if thousands were behind me. But, son
of Semo, remember me. Remember Calmar's life-
less corse. When Fingal shall have wasted the field,
place me by some stone of remembrance, that future
times may hear my fame; that the mother of Cal-
mar may rejoice in my renown.

« No : son of Matha,' said Cuthullin, ' I will
never leave thee here. My joy is in unequal fight :
my soul increases in danger. Connal, and Carril
of other times, carry off the sad sons of Erin.
When the battle is over, search for us in this nar-
row way. For near this oak we shall fall, in the
stream of the battle of thousands ! O Fithil's son,
with flying speed rush over the heath of Lena.
Tell to Fingal that Erin is fallen. Bid the king of
Morven come. O let him come, like the sun in a
storm, to lighten, to restore the isle!'

Morning is gray on Cromla. The sons of the sea
ascend. Calmar stood forth to meet them in the
pride of his kindling soul. But pale was the face
of the chief. He leaned on his father's spear — that
spear which he brought from Lara, when the soul
of his mother was sad ; the soul of the lonely Al-
eletha, waning in the sorrow of years. But slowly
now the hero falls, like a tree on the plain. Dark

FIXGAL. 295

Cuthullin stands alone, like a rock in a sandy vale.
The sea comes with its waves, and roars on its
hardened sides. Its head is covered with foam ;
the hills are echoing round.

Now from the gray mist of the ocean the white-
sailed ships of Fingal appear. High is the grove
of their masts, as they nod, by turns, on the rolling
wave. Swaran saw them from the hill. He returned
from the sons of Erin. As ebbs the resounding sea,
through the hundred isles of Inistore; so loud, so
vast, so immense, return the sons of Lochlin against
the king. But bending, weeping, sad, and slow,
and dragging his long spear behind, Cuthullin sunk
in Crorala's wood, and mourned his fallen friends.
He feared the face of Fingal, who was wont to greet
him from the fields of renown !

■ How many lie there of my heroes ! the chiefs of
Erin's race! they that were cheerful in the hall
when the sound of the shells arose ! No more shall
I find their steps in the heath ! No more shall I
hear their voice in the chase. Pale, silent, low on
bloody beds, are they who were my friends ! O
spirits of the lately dead, meet Cuthullin on his
heath ! Speak to him on the wind, when the rus-
tling tree of Tura's cave resounds. There, far re-
mote, I shall lie unknown. No bard shall hear of
me. No gray stone shall rise to my renown. Mourn
me with the dead, O Bragèla ! departed is my fame.'
Such were the words of Cuthullin when he sunk
in the woods of Cromla.

Fingal, tall in his ship, stretched his bright lance
before him. Terrible was the gleam of the steel : it
was like the green meteor of death, setting in the
heath of Malmor, when the traveller is alone, and
the broad moon is darkened in heaven.

' The battle is past,' said the king. « I behold
the blood of my friends. Sad is the heath of Lena !
mournful the oaks of Cromla ! The hunters have
fallen in their strength : the son of Semo is no more !
Ryno and Fillan, my sons, sound the horn of Fin-
gal. Ascend that hill on the shore ; call the child-
ren of the foe. Call them from the grave of Lam-
Jarg, the chief of other times. Be your voice like

295 THE POEMS OP OSSIAN.

that of your father, when he enters the battles of hifl
strength ! I wait for the mighty stranger. I wait-
on Lena's shore for Swaran. Let him come with
all his race; strong in battle are the friends of the
dead ."

Fair Ryno as lightning gleamed along : dark Fil-
lan rushed like the shade of autumn. On Lena's
heath their voice is heard. The sons of ocean heard
the horn of Fingal. As the roaring eddy of ocean
returning from the kingdom of snows: so strong.,
so dark, so sudden, came down the sons of Lochlin,
The king in their front appears, in the dismal pride
of his arms ! Wrath burns on his dark-brown face ;
his eyes roll in the fire of his valour. Fingal beheld
the son of Starno : he remembered Agandecea. For
Swaran with tears of youth had mourned his white-
bosomed sister. He sent Ullin of songs to bid him
to the feast of shells : for pleasant on Fingal 's soul
returned the memory of the first of his loves !

Ullin came with aged steps, and spoke to Starno's
son. » O thou that dwellest afar, surrounded, like
a rock, with thy waves ! come to the feast of the king,
and pass the day in rest. To-morrow let us fight,
O Swaran, and break the echoing shields.' — « To-
day,' said Starno's wrathful son, * we break the
echoing shields : to-morrow my feast shall be
spread ; but Fingal shall lie on earth.' — ' To-mor-
row let his feast be spread,' said Fingal with a smile.
« To-day, O my sons ! we shall break the echoing
shields. Ossian, stand thou near my arm. Gaul,
lift thy terrible sword. Fergus, bend thy crooked
yew. Throw, Fillan, thy lance through heaven.
Lift your shields, like the darkened moon. Be
your spears the meteors of death. Follow me in
the path of my fame. Equal my deeds in battle.'

As a hundred winds on Morven ; as the streams
of a hundred hills ; as clouds fly successive over
heaven ; as the dark oeean assails the shore of the
desert: so roaring, so vast, so terrible, the armies
mixed on Lena's echoing heath. The groan of the
people spread over the hills : it was like the thun-
der of night, when the cloud bursts on Cona ; and
a thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow

FIXGAL. i>97

wind. Fiugal rushed on in his strength, terrible as
the spirit of Trenmor; when in a whirlwind he
comes to Morven, to see the children of his pride.
The oaks resound on their mountains, and the rocks
fall down before him. Dimly seen as lightens the
night, he strides largely from hill to hill. Bloody
was the hand of my father when he whirled the
gleam of his sword. He remembers the battles of
his youth. The field is wasted in its course !

Ryno went on like a pillar of fire. Dark is the
brow of Gaul. Fergus rushed forward with feet of
wind. Fillaii like the mist of the hill. Ossian, like
a rock, came down. I exulted in the strength of the
king. Many were the deaths of my arm ! dismal the
gleam of my sword ! My locks were not then so
gray ; nor trembled my hands with age. My eyes
were not closed in darkness ; my feet failed not in
the race !

Who can relate the deaths of the people ? who the
deeds of mighty heroes ? when FiDgal, burning in
his wrath, consumed the sons of Lochlin ? Groans
swelled on groans from hill to hill, till night had
covered all. Pale, staring like a herd of deer, the
sons of Lochlin convene on Lena. We sat and heard
the sprightly harp at Lubar's gentle stream. Fiugal
himself was next to the foe. He listened to the
tales of his bards. His godlike race were in the
song, the chiefs of other times. Attentive, leaning
on his shield, the king of Morven sat. The wind
whistled through his locks ; his thoughts are of the
days of other years. Near him, on his bending
spear, my young, my valiant Oscar stood. He ad-
mired the king of Morven ; his deeds were swelling
in his soul.

' Son of my son,' begun the king, • O Oscar, pride
of youth ! I saw the shining of thy sword. I glo-
ried in my race. Pursue the fame of our fathers ;
be thou what they have been, when Trenmor lived,
the first of men, and Trathal, the father of heroes !
They fought the battle in their youth. They are
the song of bards. O Oscar ! bend the strong in
arm ; but spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream
of many tides against the foes of thy people; but

293 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

like the gale, that moves the grass, to those who
ask thine aid. So Trenmor lived; such Trathal
was; and such has Fingal been. My arm was the
support of the injured; the weak rested behind the
lightning of my steel.

'Oscar! I was young like thee, when lovely
Fainasollis came : that sunbeam ! that mild light
of love ! the daughter of Craea's* king. I then re-
turned from Cona's heath, and few were in my
train. A white-sailed boat appeared far off; we saw
it like a mist, that rode on ocean's wind. It soon
approached. We saw the fair. Her white breast
heaved with sighs. The wind was in her loose dark
hair : her rosy cheek had tears. « Daughter of
beauty,' calm I said, ' what sigh is in thy breast ?
Can I, young as I am, defend thee, daughter of the
sea ? My sword is not unmatched in war, but
dauntless is my heart.'

* ' To thee I fly,' with sighs she said, ' O prince
of mighty men ! To thee I fly, chief of the gene-
rous shells, supporter of the feeble hand ! The
king of Craea's echoing isle owned me the sun-
beam of his race. Cromla's hills have heard the
sighs of love for unhappy Fainasollis ! Sora's chief
beheld me fair ; he loved the daughter of Craca.
His sword is a beam of light upon the warrior's
side. But dark is his brow ; and tempests are in
his soul. I shun him, on the rearing sea; but
Sora's chief pursues.'

* « Rest thou,' I said, ' behind my shield ! rest
in peace, thou beam of light ! The gloomy chief
of Sora will fly, if Fingal's arm is like his soul. In
some lone cave I might conceal thee, daughter of
the sea. But Fingal never flies. Where the danger
threatens, I rejoice in the storm of spears.' I saw
the tears upon her cheek. I pitied Craea's fair.
Now, like a dreadful wave afar, appeared the ship

» What the Craca here mentioned was, it is not,
at this distance of time, easy to determine. The
most probable opinion is, that it was one of the
Shetland isles.

FINGAL. £99

of stormy Borbar. His masts high-bended over the
sea behind their sheets of snow. White roll the
waters on either side. The strength of ocean
sounds. ' Come thou,' I said, ' from the roar of
ocean, thou ruler of the storm. Partake the feast
within my hall. It is the house of strangers.*

' The maid stood trembling by my side. He
drew the bow. She fell. « Unerring is thy hand,"
1 said, < but feeble was the foe.' We fought, nor
weak the strife of death. He sunk beneath my
sword. We laid them in two tombs of stone ; the
hapless lovers of youth ! Such have I been in my
youth, O Oscar! be thou like the age of Fingal.
Never search thou for battle; nor shun it when it
comes.

' Fillan and Oscar of the dark-brown hair ! ye,
that are swift in the race! fly over the heath in
my presence. View the sons of Lochlin. Far off I
hear the noise of their feet, like distant sounds iu
woods. Go : that they may not fly from my sword,
along the waves of the north. For many chiefs of
Erin's race lie here on the dark bed of death. The
children of war are low ; the sons of echoing
Cromla.'

The heroes flew like two dark clouds — two dark
clouds that are the chariots of ghosts ; when air's
dark children come forth to frighten hapless men.
It was then that Gaul, the son of Monti, stood like
a rock in night. His spear is glittering to the stars;
his voice like many streams.

* Son of battle,' cried the chief, « O Fingal, king
of 6hells ! let the bards of many songs soothe Erin's
friends to rest. Fingal, sheathe thou thy sword of
death ; and let thy people fight. We wither away
without our fame; our king is the only breaker of
shields ! When morning rises on our hills, behold
at a distance our deeds. Let Lochlin feel the sword
of Morni's son, tttat bards may sing of me. Such
was the custom heretofore of Fingal's noble race.
Such was thine own, thou king of swords, in bat-
tles of the spear.

■ O son of Morni,' Fingal replied, ' I glory in
thy fame. Fight; but my spear shall be near, to

500 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

aid thee in the midst of danger. Raise, raise the
voice, ye sons of song, and lull me into rest. Here
will Fingal lie amidst the wind of night. And if
thou, Agandecea, art near, among the children of
thy land ; if thou sittest on a blast of wind, among
the high-shrouded masts of Lochlin ; come to my
dreams, my fair one ! Show thy bright face to my
soul.'

Many a voice and many a harp in tuneful sounds
arose. Of Fingal's noble deeds they sung ; of Fin-
gal's noble race: and sometimes, on the lovely
sound, was heard the name of Ossian. I often
fought, and often won, in battles of the spear. But
blind, and tearful, and forlorn, I walk with little
men ! O Fingal, with thy race of war I now behold
thee not. The wild roes feed on the green tomb
t>f the mighty king of Morven ! Blest be thy soul,
thou king of swords, thou most renowned on the
hills of Cona !

FINGAL.

BOOK IV.

[The action of the poem being suspended by night,
Ossian takes the opportunity to relate his own
actions at the lake of Lego, and his courtship of
Everallin, who was the mother of Oscar, and had
died some time before the expedition of Fingal
into Ireland. Her ghost appears to him, and tells
him that Oscar, who had been sent, the beginning
of the night, to observe the enemy, was engaged
with an advanced party, and almost overpowered.
Ossian relieves his son ; and an alarm is given to
Fingal of the approach of Swaran. The king rises,
calls his army together, and, as he had promised
the preceding night, devolves the command on
Gaul the son of Morni, while he himself, after
charging his sons to behave gallantly and defend
his people, retires to a hill, from whence he could
have a view of the battle. The battle joins; the
poet relates O.-car's great actions. But when
Oscar, in conjunction with his father, conquered
in one wing, Gaul, who was attacked by Swaran
in person, was on the point of retreating in the
other. Fingal sends Ullin his bard to encourage
him with a war song, but notwithstanding Swaran
prevails; and Gaul and his army are obliged to
give way. Fingal, descending from the hill, ral-
lies them again : Swaran desists from the pursuit,
possesses himself of a rising ground, restores the
ranks, and waits the approach of Fingal. The
king, having encouraged his men, gives the neces-
sary orders, and renews the battle. Cuthullin,
who, with his friend Connal, and Carril his bard,
had retired to the cave of Tura, hearing the noise,
came to the brow of the hill, which overlooked
the field of battle, where he saw Fingal engaged
with the enemy. He, being hindered by Connal
from joining Fingal, who was himself upon the

302 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

point of obtaining a complete victory, sends Car-
ril to congratulate that hero on his success.]

WHO comes with her songs from the hill, like the
bow of the showery Lena ? It is the maid of the
voice of love ! the white-armed daughter of Toscar !
Often hast thou heard my song ; often given the
tear of beauty. Dost thou come to the wars of thy
people? to hear the actions of Oscar? When shall
I cease to mourn, by the streams of resounding
Cona ? My yeai-s have passed away in battle- My
age is darkened with grief!

* Daughter of the hand of snow ! I was not so
mournful and blind ; I was not so dark and forlorn,
when Everallin loved me ! Evcrallin with the dark-
brown hair, the white-bosomed daughter of Branno.
A thousand heroes sought the maid, she refused her
love to a thousand. The sons of the sword were
despised: for graceful in her eyes was Ossian. I
went, in suit of the maid, to Lego's sable surge.
Twelve of my people were there, the sons of streamy
Morven ! We came to Branno, friend of strangers !
Branno of the sounding mail ! « From whence,' he
said, 'are the arms of steel? Not easy to win is
the maid, who has denied the blue-eyed sons of
Erin. But blest be thou, O son of Fingal ! Happy
is the maid that waits thee ! Though twelve daugh-
ters of beauty were mine, thine were the choice,
thou son of fame !'

* He opened the hall of the maid, the dark -haired
Everallin. Joy kindled in our manly breasts. We
blest the maid of Branno. Above us on the hill ap-
peared the people of stately Cormac. Eight were
the heroes of the chief. The heath flamed wide with
their arms. There Colla ; there Durra of wounds ;
there mighty Toscar, and Tago ; there Fresta the
victorious stood ; Dairo of the happy deeds ; Data
the battle's bulwark in the narrow way ! The sword
flamed in the hand of Cormac. Graceful was the
look of the hero ! Eight were the heroes of Ossian.
Ullin stormy son of war. Mullo of the generous
deeds. The noble, the graceful Scelacha. Oglan,
and Cerdal the wrathful. Dumariccan's brows of

FIXGAL. 303

death. And why should Ogar be the last ; so wide-
renowned on the hills of Ardven ?

« Ogar met Dala the strong face to face, on the field
of heroes. The battle of the chiefs was like wind on
ocean's foamy waves. The dagger is remembered by
Ogar; the weapon which he loved. Nine times he
drowned it in Dala's side. The stormy battle turned.
Three times I broke on Cormac's shield : three
imes he broke his spear. But, unhappy youth of
love ! I cut his head away. I'ive times I shook it
by the lock. The friends of Cormac fled. Who-
ever would have told me, lovely maid, when then
I strove in battle, that blind, forsaken, and forlorn,
I now should pass the night ; firm ought his mail
to have been ; unmatched his arm in war.'

On Lena's gloomy heath the voice of music died
away. The unconstant blast blew hard. The high
oak shook its leaves around. Of Everallin were my
thoughts, when in all the light of beauty she came;
her blue eyes rolling in tears. She stood on a
cloud before my sight, and spoke with feeble voice !
' Rise, Ossiau, rise, and save my son : save Oscar,
prince of men. Near the red oak of Lubar's stream
he fights with Lochlin's sons.' She sunk into her
cloud again. I covered me with steel. My spear
supported my steps ; my rattling armour rung. I
bummed, as I was wont in danger, the songs of
heroes of old. Like distant thunder Lochlin heard.
They fled ; my son pursued.

I called him like a distant stream. ' Oscar, re-
turn over Lena. No further pursue the foe,' I
said, « though Ossian is behind thee.' He came !
and pleasant to my ear was Oscar's sounding steel.
' Why didst thou stop my hand,' he said, « till death
had covered all ? For dark and dreadful by the
stream they met thy son and Fillan. They watched
the terrors of the night. Our swords have con-
quered some. But as the winds of night pour the
ocean over the white sands of Mora, so dark ad-
vance the sons of Lochlin over Lena's rustling
heath ! The ghosts of night shriek afar: I have
seen the meteors of death. Let me awake the king
of Morven, he that smiles in danger— he that is
like the sun of heaven, rising in a storm '.'

304 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Fingal had started from a dream, and leaned on
Trenmor's shield ! the dark-brown shield of his fa-
thers, which they had lifted of old in war. The
hero had seen, in his rest, the mournful form of
Agandecca. She came from the way of the ocean.
She slowly, lonely, moved over Lena. Her face
was pnle, like the mist of Cromla. Dark were the
tears of her cheek. She often raised her dim hand
from her robe, her robe which was of the clouds
of the desert : she raised her dim hand over Fingal,
and turned away her silent eyes ! ' Why weeps
the daughter of Starno ?' said Fingal with a sigh ;
' why is thy face so pale, fair wanderer of the
clouds ?' She departed on the wind of Lena. She
left him in the midst of the night. She mourned
the sons of her people, that were to fall by the hand
of Fingal.

The hero started from rest. Still he beheld her
in his soul. The sound of Oscar's steps approached.
The king saw the gray shield on his side: for the
faint beam cf the morning came over the waters of
Ullin. ' What do the foes in their fear ?' said the
rising king of Morven ; ' or fly they through ocean's
foam, or wait they the battle of steel? But why
should Fingal ask ? I hear their voice on the early
wind ! Fly over Lena's heath : O Oscar, awake our
friends !'

The king stood by the stone of Lubar. Thrice
he reared his terrible voice. The deer started from
the fountains of Cromla. The rocks shook on all
their hills. Like the noise of a hundred mountain-
streams, that burst, and roar, and foam ! like the
clouds that gather to a tempest on the blue face of
the sky ! so met the sons of the desert; round the
terrible voice of Fingal. Pleasant was the voice of
the king of Morven to the warriors of his land.
Often had he led them to battle; often returned
with the spoils of the foe.

« Come to battle,' said the king, ' ye children of
echoing Selma ! Come to the death of thousands.
Comhal's son will see the figh;t. My sword shall
wave on the hill, the defence of my people in war.
But never may you need it, warriors, while the son
of Morni fights, the chief of mighty men ! He shall

FIXGAL. 305

lead my battle, that his fame may rise in song ! O
ye ghosts of heroes dead ! ye riders of the storm
of Cromla ! receive my falling people with joy, and
bear them to your hills. And may the blast of Lena
carry them over my seas, that they may come to
my silent dreams, and delight my soul in rest.
Fillan and Oscar, cf the dark-brown hair ! fair
Ryno, with the pointed steel ! advance with valour
to the fight. Behold the son of Morni ! Let your
swords be like his in strife : behold the deeds of his
hands. Protect the friends of your father. Re-
member the chiefs of old. My children, I will see
you yet, though here you should fall in Erin.
Soon shall our cold pale ghosts meet in a cloud, on
Cona's eddying winds.'

Now like a dark and stormy cloud, edged round
with the red lightning of heaven, flying westward
from the morning's beam, the king of Selma re-
moved. Terrible is the light of his armour ; two
spears are in his hand. His gray hair falls on the
wind. He often looks back on the war. Three
bards attend the son of fame, to bear his words
to the chiefs. High on Cromla's side he sat,
waving the lightning of his sword, and as he waved
we moved.

Joy rises in Oscar's face. His cheek is red. His
eye sheds tears. The sword is a beam of fire in his
hand. He came, and smiling, spoke to Ossian. ' O
ruler of the fight of steel .' my father, hear thy son !
Retire with Morven's mighty chief. Give me the
fame of Ossian. If here I fall, O chief, remember
that breast of snow, the lonely sunbeam of my love,
the white-handed daughter of Toscar ! For, with
red cheek from the rock, bending over the stream,
her soft hair flies about her bosom, as she pour?
the sigh for Oscar. Tell her I am on my hills, a
lightly-bounding son of the wind ; tell her, that m
a cloud I may meet the lovely maid of Toscar.'
Raise, Oscar, rather raise my tomb. I will not
yield the war to thee. The first and bloodiest in
the strife, my arm shall teach thee how to fight.
But remember, my son, to place this sword, this
bow, the horn of my deer, within that dark and

306 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

narrow house, whose mark is one gray stone!
Oscar, I have no love to leave to the care of my
son. Everallin is no more, the lovely daughter of
Branno !

Such were our words, when Gaul's loud voice
came growing on the wind. He waved on high the
sword of his father. We rushed to death and wounds.
As waves, white bubbling over the deep, come
swelling, roaring on ; as rocks of ooze meet roar-
ing waves; so foes attacked and fought. Man
met with man, and steel with steel. Shields sound,
and warriors fall. As a hundred hammers on the
red son of the furnace, so rose, so rung their
swords !

Gaul rushed on, like a whirlwind in Ardven.
The destruction of heroes is on his sword. Swaran
was like the fire of the desert in the echoing heath
of Gormal ! How can I give to the song the death
of many spears ? My sword rose high, and flamed
in the strife of blood. Oscar, terrible wert thou,
my best, my greatest son ! I rejoiced in my secret
soul, when his sword flamed over the slain. They
fled amain through Lena's heath. We pursued and
slew. As stones that bound from rock to rock ; as
axes in echoing woods ; as thunder rolls from hill
to hill, in dismal broken peals; so blow succeeded
to blow, and death to death, from the hand of Oscar
and mine.

But Swaran closed round Morni's son, as the
strength of the tide of Inistore. The king half-rose
from his hill at the sight. He half-assumed the
spear. ' Go, Ullin, go, my aged bard,' begun the
king of Morven. ' Remind the mighty Gaul of war.
Remind him of his fathers. Support the yielding
fight with song ; for song enlivens war.' Tall Ullin
went, with step of age, and spoke to the king of
swords. ' Son of the chief of generous steeds !
high-bounding king of spears ! Strong arm in every
perilous toil ! Hard heart that never yields ! Chief
of the pointed arms of death ! Cut down the foe ;
let no white sail bound round dark Inistore. Be
thine arm like thunder, thine eyes like fire, thy
heart of solid rock. Whirl round thy sword as a

FIXGAL. 307

meteor at night ; lift thy shield like the flame of
death. Son of the chief of generous steeds, cut
down the foe! Destroy!" The hero's heart beat high.
liut Swaran came with battle. He cleft the shield
of Gaul in twain. The sons of Selina fled.

Fingal at once arose in arms. Thrice he reared
his dreadful voice. Cromla answered around. The
sons of the desert stood still. They bent their blush-
ing faces to earth, ashamed at the presence of the
king. He came like a cloud of rain in the day of
the sun, when slow it rolls on the hill, aud fields
expect the shower. Silence attends its slow pro-
gress aloft; but the tempest is soon to arise.
Swaran beheld the terrible king of Morven. He
stopped in the midst of his course. Dark he leaned
on his spear, rolling his red eyes around. Silent
and tall he seemed as an oak on the banks of Lu-
nar, which had its branches blasted of old by the
lightning of heaven. It bends over the stream :
the gray moss whistles in the wind : so stood the
king. Then slowly he retired to the rising heath
of Lena. His thousands pour around the hero.
Darkness gathers on the hill !

Fingal, like a beam from heaven, shone in the
midst of his people. HÌ3 heroes gather around
him. He sends forth the voice of his power. 'Raise
my standards on high; spread them on Lena's
wind, like the flames of an hundred hills ! Let
them sound on the winds of Erin, and remind us
of the fight. Ye sons of the roaring streams, that
pour from a thousand hills, be near the king of
Morven ! attend to the words of his power ! Gaul,
strongest arm of death ! O Oscar of the future
fights ! Connal, son of the blue shields of Sora !
Dermid, of the dark-brown hair ! Ossian, king of
many songs.be near your father's arm !' We reared
the sunbeam * of battle, the standard of the king !

* Fingal's standard was distinguished by the
name of ' sunbeam :' probably on account of its
bright colour, and by its being studded with gold.
To begin a battle is expressed, in old composition,
by ' lifting of the sunbeam.'

303 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Each hero exulted with joy, as, waving, it flew on
the wind. It was studded with gold above, as the
blue wide shell of the nightly sky. Each hero
had his standard too, and each his gloomy men !

• Behold,' said the king of generous shells, ' how
Lochlin divides on Lena ! they stand like broken
clouds on a hill, or an half-consumed grove of oaks,
when we see the sky through its branches, and the
meteor passing behind ! Let every chief among
the friends of Fingal take a dark troop of those
that frown so high : nor let a son of the echoing
groves bound on the waves of Inistore !'

* Mine,' said Gaul, * be the seven chiefs that
came from Lano's lake.' ' Let Inistore's dark
king,' said Oscar, ' come to the sword of Ossian's
son.' ' To mine the king of Iniscon,' said Connal,
heart of steel ! ■ Or Mudan's chief or I,' said
brown-haired Dermid, ' shall sleep on clay-cold
earth.' My choice, though now so weak and dark,
was Terman's battling king; I promised with my
hand to win the hero's dark-brown shield. « Blest
and victorious be my chiefs,' said Fingal of the
mildest look. • Swaran, king of roaring waves,
thou art the choice of Fingal !'

Now, like an hundred different winds that pour
through many vales, divided, dark the sons of
Selma advanced. Cromla echoed around ! ■ How
can I relate the deaths, when we closed in the
strife of arms ! O daughter of Toscar, bloody were
our hands ! The gloomy ranks of Lochlin fell like
the banks of the roaring Cona ! Our arms were
victorious on Lena: each chief fulfilled his pro-
mise ! Beside the murmur of Branno thou didst
often sit, O maid ! thy white bosom rose frequent,
like the down of the swan when slow she swims on
the lake, and sidelong winds blow on her ruffled
wing. Thou hast seen the sun retire, red and slow,
behind his cloud : night gathering round on the
mountain, while the un frequent blast roared in the
narrow vales. At length the rain beats hard :
thunder rolls in peals. Lightning glances on the
rocks ! Spirits ride on beams of fire ! The strength
of the mountain-streams comes roaring down the

FIXGAL. 309

hills. Such was the noise of battle, maid of the
arms of snow ! Why, daughter of Toscar, why
: hat tear? The maids of Lochlin have cause to
weep ! The people of their country fell. — Bloody
were the blue swords of the race of my heroes !
But I am sad, forlorn, and blind : no more the
companion of heroes ! Give, lovely maid, to me
thy tears. I have seen the tombs of all my friends !'
It was then, by Fingal's hand, a hero fell, to his
grief! Gray-haired he rolled in the dust. He lifted
his faint eyes to the king ! ' And is it by me thou
hast fallen,' said the son of Comhal, • thou friend
of Agandecca ! I have seen thy tears for the maid
of my love in the halls of the bloody Starno ! Thou
hast been the foe of the foes of my love, and hast
thou fallen by my hand? Raise, Ullin, raise the
grave of Mathon, and give his name to Agandecca's
song. Dear to my soul hast thou been, thou darkly-
dwelling maid of Ardvcn !'

Cuthullin, from the cave of Cromla, heard the
noise of the troubled war. He called to Connal
chief of swords: to Carril of other times. The
gray-haired heroes heard his voice. They took their
pointed spears. They came, and saw the tide of
battle, like ocean's crowded waves, when the dark
wind blows from the deep, and rolls the billows
through the sandy vale ! Cuthullin kindled at the
sight. Darkness gathered on his brow. His hand
is on the sword of his fathers : his red rolling eyes
on the foe. He thrice attempted to rush to battle.
He thrice was stopped by Connal. ■ Chief of the
isle of mist,' he said, ' Fingal subdues the foe.
Seek not a part of the fame of the king ; himself
is like the storm !'

' Then, Carril, go,' replied the chief, 'go greet
the king of Morven. When Lochlin falls away like
a stream after rain ; when the noise of the battle is
past; then be thy voice sweet in his ear to praise
the king of Selma ! Give him the sword of Caith-
bat. Cuthullin is not worthy to lift the arms of his
fathers ! Come, O ye ghosts of the lonely Cromla !
ye souls of chiefs that are no more ! oe near the
steps of Cuthullin; talk to him in the cave of his

310 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

grief. Never more shall I be renowned among the
mighty in the land. I am a beam that has shone;
a mist that has fled away : when the blast of the
morning came, and brightened the shaggy side of
the hill. Connal, talk of arms no more; departed
is my fame. My sighs shall be on Cromla's wind,
till my footsteps cease to be seen. And thou, white-
bosomed Bragela, mourn over the fall of my fame :
vanquished, I will never return to thee, thou sun-
beam of my soul !'

FINGAL.

BOOK V.

[Cuthullin and Connal still remain on the hill. Fin-
gal and Swaran meet: the combat is described.
Swaran is overcome, bound, and delivered over
as a prisoner to the care of Ossian, and Gaul the
son of Morni ; Fingal, his younger sons, and Os-
car, still pursue the enemy. The episode of Orla,
a chief of Lochlin, who was mortally wounded
in the battle, is introduced. Fingal, touched
with the death of Orla, orders the pursuit to be
discontinued; and calling his sons together, he
is informed that Ryno, the youngest of them,
was slain. He laments his death, hears the
story of Lamderg and Gelchossa, and returns
towards the place where he had left Swaran.
Carril, who had been sent by Cuthullin to con-
gratulate Fingal on his victory, comes in the
mean time to Ossian. The conversation of the
two poets closes the action of the fourth day.]

OX Cromla's resounding side Connal spoke to the
chief of the noble car. Why that gloom, son of
Selmo ? Our friends are the mighty in fight. Re-
nowned art thou, O warrior ! many were the deaths
of thy steel. Often has Bragela met, with blue-
rolling eyes of joy— often has she met her hero re-
turning in the midst of the valiant, when his sword
was red with slaughter, when his foes were silent
in the fields of the tomb. Pleasant to her ears were
thy bards, when thy deeds arose in song.

But behold the king of Morven ! He moves, be-
low, like a pillar of fire. His strength is like the
stream of Lubar, or the wind of the echoing
Cromla, when the branchy forests of night are
torn from all their rocks. Happy are thy people,

312 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

O Fingal ! thine arm shall finish their wars. Thou
art the first in their dangers — the wisest in the
days of their peace. Thou speakest, and thy thou-
sands obey: armies tremble at the sound of thy
steel. Happy are thy people, O Fingal! king of
resounding Selma. Who is that so dark and ter-
rible coming in the thunder of his course ? who but
Starno's son, to meet the king of Morveu ? Behold .
the battle of the chiefs! it is the storm of the
ocean, when two spirits meet far distant, and con-
tend for the rolling of waves. The hunter hears
the noise on his hill. He sees the high billows ad-
vancing to Ardven's shore.

Such were the words of Connal when the heroes
met in fight. There was the clang of arms ! there
every blow, like the hundred hammers of the fur-
nace ! Terrible is the battle of the kings ; dreadful
the look of their eyes. Their dark-brown shields
are cleft in twain. Their steel flies, broken, from
their helms. They fling their weapons down. Each
rushes to his hero's grasp: their sinewy arms bend
round each other : they turn from side to side,
and strain and stretch their large spreading limbs
below. But when the pride of their strength arose,
they shook the hill with their heels. Rocks tumble
from their places on high ; the green-headed bushes
are overturned. At length the strength of Swaran
fell : the king of the groves is bound. Thus have
I seen on Cona ; but Cona I behold no more ! thus
have I seen two dark hills removed from their
place by the strength of the bursting stream. They
turn from side to side in their fall ; their tall oaks
meet one another on high. Then they tumble
together with all their rocks and trees. The
streams are turned by their side. The red ruin is
seen afar.

* Sons of distant Morven,' said Fingal, ' guard
the king of Lochlin. He is strong as his thousand
waves. His hand is taught to war. His race is of
the times of old. Gaul, thou first of my heroes;
Ossian, king of songs, attend. He is the friend of
Agandecca; raise to joy his grief. But, Oscar,

FINGAL. 313

Fillan, and Ryno, ye children of the race, pursue
Lochlin over Lena, that no vessel may hereafter
bound on the dark-rolling waves of Inistore.'

They flew sudden across the heath. He slowly-
moved, like a cloud of thunder, when the sultry
plain of summer is silent and dark. His sword is
before him as a sunbeam ; terrible as the streaming
meteor of night. He came toward a chief of Loch-
lin. He spoke to the son of the wave. — • Who is
that so dark and S3d, at the rock of the roaring
stream ? He cannot bound over its course. How
stately is the chief! His bossy shield is on his
side ; his spear like the tree of the desert. Youth
of the dark-red hair, art thou of the foes of Fingal !'

' I am a son of Lochlin,' he cries ; ' strong is my
arm in war. My spouse is weeping at home. Orla
shall never return !' ' Or fights or yields the hero ?'
said Fingal of the noble deeds; ' foes do not con-
quer in my presence: my friends are renowned in
the hall. Son of the wave, follow me: partake the
feast of my shells: pursue the deer of my desert:
be thou the friend of Fingal.' • No,' said the hero :
' I assist the feeble. My strength is with the weak
in arms. My sword has been always unmatched,
O warrior ! let the king of Morven yield !' ' I never
yielded, Orla! Fingal never yielded toman. Draw
thy sword, and choose thy foe. Many are my he-
roes !*

■ Does then the king refuse the fight ?' said Orla
of the dark-brown shield. • Fingal is a match for
Orla, and he alone of all his race! But, king of
Morven, if I shall fall, as one time the warrior
must die ; raise my tomb in the midst : let it be the
greatest on Lena. Send over the dark-blue wave
the sword of Orla to the spouse of his love, that
she may show it to her son, with tears to kindle
his soul to war.' ' Son of the mournful tale,' said
Fingal, 'why dost thou awaken my tears? One
day the warriors must die, and the children see
their useless arms in the hall. But, Orla, thy tomb
shall rise. Thy white-bosomed spouse shall weep
over thy sword.'

They fought on the heath of Lena. Feeble was

314 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

the arm of Orla. The sword of Fingal descended,
and cleft his shield in twain. It fell and glittered
on the ground, as the moon on the ruffled stream.
' King of Morven,' said the hero, ' lift thy sword
and pierce my breast. Wounded and faint from
battle, my friends have left me here. The mourn-
ful tale shall come to my love on ihe banks of the
streamy Lota, when she is alone in the wood, and
the rustling blast in the leaves !'

• No,' said the king of Morven : « I will never
wound thee, Orla. On the banks of Lota let her
see thee, escaped from the hands of war. Let thy
gray-haired father, who, perhaps, is blind with age,
let him hear the sound of thy voice, and brighten
within his hall. With joy let the hero rise, and
search for his son with his hands !' • But never will
he find him, Fingal,' said the youth of the streamy
Lota : ' on Lena's heath I must die : foreign bards
shall talk of me. My broad belt covers my wound
of death. I give it to the wind !'

The dark blood poured from his side : he fell pale
on the heath of Lena. Fingal bent over him as he
died, and called his younger chiefs. « Oscar and
Fillan, my sons, raise high the memory of Orla.
Here let the dark-haired hero rest, far from the
spouse of his love. Here let him rest in his narrow
house, far from the sound of Lota. The feeble will
find his bow at home, but will not be able to bend
it. His faithful dogs howl on his hills; his boars,
which he used to pursue, rejoice. Fallen is the arm
of battle ! the mighty among the valiant is low !
Exalt the voice, and blow the horn, ye sons of the
king of Morven ! Let us go back to S waran, to send
the night away on song. Fillan, Oscar, and Ryno,
fly over the heath of Lena. Where, Ryno, art thou,
young son of fame ? Thou art not wont to be the
last to answer thy father's voice !'

* Ryno,' said Ullin, first of bards, ' is with the
awful forms of his fathers. With Trathal, king of
shields; withTrenmor of mighty deeds. The youth
is low, the youth is pale; he lies on Lena's heath !'
• Fell the swiftest in the race,' said the king, ' the
first to bend the bow ? Thou scarce hast been known

FINGAL. 315

to me ! Why did young Ryno fall ? But sleep thou
softly on Lena, Fingal shall soon behold thee. Soon
shall my voice be heard no more, and my footsteps
cease to be seen. The bards will tell of Fingal's
name. The stones will talk of me. But, Ryno..
thou art low, indeed: thou hast not received thy
fame. Ullin, strike the harp for Ryno; tell what
the chief would have been. Farewell, thou first in
every field. No more shall I direct thy dart. Thou
that hast been so fair ! I behold thee not. Fare-
well.' The tear is on the cheek of the king, for ter-
rible was his son in war. His son, that was like a
beam of fire by night on a hill, when the forests sink
down in its course, and the traveller trembles at
the sound. But the winds drive it beyond the
steep. It sinks from sight, and darkness prevails.
' Whose fame is in that dark-green tomb ?' begun
the king of generous shells : ' four stones with their
heads of moss stand there. They mark the narrow
house of death. Near it let Ryno rest. A neigh-
bour to the brave let him lie. Some chief of fame
is here, to fly with my son on cldVids. O Ullin !
raise the songs of old. Awake their memory in their
tomb. If in the field they never fled, my son shall
rest by their side. He shall rest, far distant from
Morven, on Lena's resounding plains.'

* Here,' said the bard of song, ' here rest the
first of heroes. Silent is Lamderg in this place :
dumb is Ullin, king of swords. And who, soft
smiling from her cloud, shows me her face of love ?
Why, daughter, why so pale art thou, first of the
maids of Cromla ? Dost thou sleep with the foes in
battle, white-bosomed daughter of Tuathal ? Thou
hast been the love of thousands, but Lamderg was
thy love. He came to Tura's mossy towers, and,
striking his dark buckler, spoke : ' Where is Gel-
chossa, my love, the daughter of the noble Tuathal Ì
I left her in the hall of Tura, when I fought with
great Ulfada. Return soon, O Lamderg ! she said,
for here I sit in grief. Her white breast rose with
sighs. Her cheek was wet with tears. But I see
her not coming to meet me, to soothe my soul after
war. Silent is the hall of my joy. I hear not the

316 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

voice of the bard. Bran does not shake his chains
at the gate, glad at the coming of Lamderg. Where
is Gelchossa, my love, the mild daughter of the
generous Tuathal ?'

' * Lamderg,' says Ferchios, son of Aidon, • Gel-
chossa moves stately on Cromla. She and the maids
of the bow pursue the flying deer!' ' Ferchios!'
replied the chief of Cromla, ' no noise meets the
ear of Lamderg ! No sound is in the woods of
Lena. No deer fly in my sight. No panting dog
pursues. I see not Gelchossa, my love, fair as the
full moon setting on the hills. Go, Ferchios, go to
Allad, the gray-haired son of the rock. His dwell-
ing is in the circle of stones. He may know of the
bright Gelchossa !'

• The son of Aidon went. He spoke to the ear of
age. ' Allad, dweller of rocks, thou that tremblest
alone, what saw thine eyes of age ?' < I saw,' an-
swered Allad the old, « Ullin the son of Cairbar.
He came, in darkness, from Cromla. He hummed
a surly song, like a blast in a leafless wood. He
entered the hail of Tura. ' Lamderg,' he said,
' most dreadful of men, fight or yield to Ullin.'
' Lamderg," replied Gelchossa, ' the son of battle,
is not here. He fights Ulfada, mighty chief. He
is not here, thou first of men! But Lamderg never
yields. He will fight the son of Cairbar!' ' Lovely
art thou,' said terrible Ullin, ' daughter of the gene-
rous Tuathal. I carry thee to Cairbar's halls. The
valiant shall have Gelchossa. Three days I remain
on Cromla, to wait that son of battle, Lamderg. On
the fourth Gelchossa is mine, if the mighty Lam-
derg flies.'

' ' Allad,' said the chief of Cromla, ' peace to thy
dreams in the cave. Ferchios, sound the horn of
Lamderg, that Ullin may hear in his halls.' Lam-
derg, like a roaring storm, ascended the hill from
Tura. He hummed a surly song as he went, like
the noise of a falling stream. He darkly stood upon
the hill, like a cloud varying its form to the wind.
He rolled a stone, the sign of war. Ullin heard in
Cairbar's hall. The hero heard, with joy, his foe. J
He took his father's spear. A smile brightens his

FINGAL. 317

dark-brown cheek, as he places his sword by his
side. The dagger glittered in his hand; he whistled
as he went.

' Gelchossa saw the silent chief, as a wreath of
mist ascending the hill. She struck her white and
heaving breast ; and silent, tearful, feared for Lam-
derg. « Cairbar, hoary chief of shells,' said the
maid of the tender hand, ' I must bend the bow on
Croinla. I see the dark-brown hinds.' She hasted
up the hill. In vain ! the gloomy heroes fought.
Why should I tell to Selma's king how wrathful he-
roes fight? Fierce Ullin fell. VoungLamdergcame,
all pale, to the daughter of generous Tuathal ! ' What
blood, my love,' she trembling said, ' what blood
runs down my warrior's side ?' « It is Ullin's blood, '
the chief replied, * thou fairer than the snow ! Gel-
chossa, let me rest here a little while.' The mighty
Lamderg died ! ' And sleepest thou so soon on earth,
O chief of shady Tura ?' Three days she mourned
beside her love. The hunters found her cold. They
raised this tomb above the three. Thy son, O king
of Morveu, may rest here with heroes !'

1 And here my son shall rest,' said Fingal. * The
voice of their fame is in mine ears. Fillan and Fer-
gus, bring hither Orla, the pale youth of the stream
of Lota ! Not unequalled shall Ryno lie in earth,
when Orla is by his side. Weep, ye daughters of
Morven ! ye maids of the streamy Lota, weep ! Like
a tree they grew on the hills. They have fallen like
the oak of the desert, when it lies across a stream,
and withers in the wind. Oscar, chief of every
youth, thou seest how they have fallen. Be thou
like them on earth renowned. Like them the song
of bards. Terrible were their forms in battle ; but
calm was Ryno in the days of peace. He was like
the bow of the shower seen far distant on the
stream, when the sun is setting on Mora, when si-
lence dwells on the hill of deer. Rest, youngest of
my sons ! rest, O Ryno ! on Lena. We too shall be
no more. Warriors one day must fall !'

Such was thy grief, thou king of swords, when
Ryno lay on earth. What must the grief of Ossian
be, for thou thyself art gone ! I hear not thy di-

31o THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

stant voice on Cona. My eyes perceive thee not.
Often forlorn and dark I sit at thy tomb, and feel it
with my hands. When I think I hear thy voice, it
is but the passing blast. Fingal has long since
fallen asleep, the ruler of the war !

Then Gaul and Ossian sat with Swaran, on the
soft green banks of Lubar. I touched the harp to
please the king. But gloomy was his brow. He
rolled his red eyes towards Lena. The hero mourn-
ed his host. I raised mine eyes to Cromla's brow.
I saw the son of generous Semo. Sad and slow he
retired from his hill, toward the lonely cave of Tura.
He saw Fiugat victorious, and mixed his joy with
grief. The sun is bright on his armour. Connal
slowly strode behind. They sunk behind the hill,
like two pillars of the fire of night, when winds
pursue them over the mountain, and the flaming
heath resounds ! Beside a stream of roaring foam
his cave is in a rock. One tree bends above it.
The rushing winds echo against its sides. Here
rests the chief of Erin, the son of generous Semo.
His thoughts are on the battles he lost. The tear
is on his cheek. He mourned the departure of his
fame, that fled like the mist of Cona. O Bragela !
thou art too far remote, to cheer the soul of the
hero. But let him see thy bright form in his mind,
that his thoughts may return to the lonely sunbeam
of his love !

"Who comes with the locks of age? It is the son
of songs. ' Hail, Carril of other times ! Thy voice
is like the harp in the halls of Tura. Thy words are
pleasant as the shower which falls on the sunny
field. Carril of the times of old, why comest thou
from the son of the generous Semo ?'

« Ossian, king of swords,' replied the bard, 'thou
best canst raise the song. Long hast thou been
known to Carril, thou ruler of war! Often have I
touched the harp to lovely Everallin. Thou too
hast often joined my voice in Branno's hall of ge-
nerous shells. And often, amidst our voices, was
heard the mildest Everallin. One day she sung of
Cormac's fall, the youth who died for her love. I
saw the tears on her cheek, and on thine, thou

FINGAL. 319

chief of men. Her soul was touched for the un-
happy, though she loved him not. How fair among
a thousand maids was the daughter of generous
Branno !'

' Bring not, Carril,' I replied, • bring not her
memory to my mind. My soul must melt at the
remembrance. My eyes must have their tears. Pale
in the earth is she, the softly-blushing fair of my
love ! But sit thou on the heath, O bard ! and let
us hear thy voice. It is pleasant as the gale of
spring, that sighs on the hunter's ear, when he
awakens from dreams of joy, and has heard the
music of the spirits of the hill !'

FINGAL

BOOK VI.

[Night comes on. Fingal gives a feast to his army,
at which Swaran is present. The king commands
Ullin his bard to give ' the song of peace ;' a cus-
tom always observed at the end of a war. Ullin
relates the actions of Trenmor, great-grandfather
to Fingal, in Scandinavia, and his marriage with
Inibaca, the daughter of a king of Lochlin, who
was ancestor to Swaran; which consideration,
together with his being brother to Agandecca,
with whom Fingal was in love in his youth, in-
duced the king to release him, and permit him to
return with the remains of his army into Lochlin,
upon his promise of never returning to Ireland in
a hostile manner. The night is spent in settling
Swaran's departure, in songs of bards, and in a
conversation in which the story of Grumal is in-
troduced by Fingal. Morning comes. Swaran
departs. Fingal goes on a hunting party, and
finding Cuthullin in the cave of Tura, comforts
him, and sets sail the next day for Scotland,
which concludes the poem.]

THE clouds of night come rolling down. Dark-
ness rests on the steeps of Cromla. The stars
of the north arise over the rolling of Erin's waves :
they show their heads of fire through the flying mist
of heaven. A distant wind roars in the wood. Si-
lent and dark is the plain of death ! Still on the
dusky Lena arose in my ears the voice of Carril.
He sung of the friends of our youth ; the days of
former years ; when we met on the banks of Lego ;
when we sent round the joy of the shell. Cromla
answered to his voice. The ghosts of those heisung
came in their rustling winds. They were seen to
bend with joy, towards the sound of their praise !
Be thy soul blest, O Carril ! in the midst of thy

FINGAL. v.'l

eddying winds. O that thou wouldst come to my
hall, when I am alone by night ! And thou dost
come, my friend. I hear often thy light hand on my
harp, when it hangs on the distant wall, and the
feeble sound touches my ear. Why dost thou not
speak to me in my grief, and tell when I shall behold
my friends ? But thou passest away in thy mur-
muring blast ; the wind whistles through the gray
hair of Ossian !

Now, on the side of Mora, the heroes gathered to
the feast. A thousand aged oaks are burning to the
wind. The strength of the shells goes round. The
souls of warriors brighten with joy. But the king of
Lochlin is silent. Sorrow reddens in the eyes of his
pride. He often turned toward Lena. He remem-
bered that he fell. Fingal leaned on the shield of
his fathers. His gray locks slowly waved on the
wind, and glittered to the beam of night. He saw
the grief of Swaran, and spoke to the first of bards.

' Raise, Ullin, raise the song of peace. O soothe
my soul from war ! Let mine ear forget, in the sound,
the dismal noise of arms. Let a hundred harps be
near to gladden the king of Lochlin. He must de-
part from us with joy. None ever went sad from
Fingal. Oscar! the lightning of my sword is against
the strong in fight. Peaceful it lies by my side when
warriors yield in war.'

' Trenmor,' said the mouth of songs, < lived in
the daysof other years. He bounded over the waves
of the north : companion of the storm ! The high
rocks of the land of Lochlin, its groves of murmur-
ing sounds, appeared to the hero through mist ; he
bound his white-bosomed sails. Trenmor pursued
the boar that roared through the woods of Gormal.
Many had fled from its presence ; but it rolled in
death on the spear of Trenmor. Three chiefs, who
beheld the deed, told of the mighty stranger. They
told that he stood, like a pillar of fire, in the bright
arms of his valour. The king of Lochlin prepared
the feast. He called the blooming Trenmor. Three
days he feasted at Gormal's windy towers, and re-
ceived his choice in the combat. The landof Loch-
lin had no hero that yielded not to Trenmor. The
P2

322 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

shell of joy went round with songs in praise of the
king of Morven ; lie that came over the waves, the
first of mighty men.

• Now when the fourth gray morn arose, the hero
launched his ship. He walked along the silent
shore, and called for the rushing wind : for loud
and distant he heard the blast murmuring behind
the groves. Covered over with arms of steel, a son
of the woody Gormal appeared. Red was his cheek,
and fair his hair. Mis skin was like the snow of
Morven. Mild rolled his blue and smiling eye,
when he spoke to the king of swords.

: ' Stay, Trenmor, stay, thou first of men ; thou
hast not conquered Lonval's son. My sword has
often met the brave. The wise shun the strength
of my bow.' « Thou fair-haired youth,' Trenmor
replied, ' I will not fight with Lonval's son. Thine
arm is feeble, sunbeam of youth ! Retire to Gor-
mal's dark-brown hinds.' ' But I will retire,' re-
plied the youth, ' with the sword of Trenmor ; and
exult in the sound of my fame. The virgins shall
gather with smiles around him who conquered
mighty Trenmor. They shall sigh with the sighs of
love, and admire the length of thy spear; when I
shall carry it among thousands; when I lift the
glittering point to the sun.'

' ' Thou shalt never carry my spear,' said the an-
gry king of Morven. ' Thy mother shall find thee
pale on the shore ; and, looking over the dark-blue
deep, see the sails of him that slew her son!' ' I
will not lift, tliespear,' replied the youth; ' my arm
is not strong with years. But, with the feathered
dart, 1 have learned to pierce a distant foe. Throw
down that heavy mail of steel. Trenmor is covered
from death. I first will lay my mail on earth.
Throw now thy dart, thou king of Morven !' He
saw the heaving of her breast. It was the sister of
the king. She had seen him in the hall, and loved

his race of youth. The Bpeax dropt from the hand

of Trenmor: he bent his red cheek to the ground.
She was to him a beam of light that meets the sons
of the cave; when they revisit the fields of the sun,
d their aching eyes!

FINGAL. 5'23

« • Chief of the windy Morven,' begun the maid
of the arms of snow, « let me rest in thy bounding
ship, far from the love of Corlo. For he, like the
thunder of the desert, is terrible to Inibaea. He
lovea me in the gloom of pride. lie shakes ten
thousand spears !' — • Rest thou in peace,' said the
mighty Trenmor, ' rest behind the shield of my fa-
thers. I will not fly from the chief, though he
shakes ten thousand spears.' Three days he waited
on the shore. He sent his horn abroad. He called
Corlo to battle, from all his echoing hills. But
Corlo came not to battle. The king of Lochlin de-
scends from his hall. He feasted on the roaring
shore. He gave the maid to Trenmor !'

' King of Lochlin,' said Fingal, * thy blood flows
in the veins of thy foe. Our fathers met in battle,
because they loved the strife of spears. But often
did they feast in the hall, and send round the joy
of the shell. Let thy face brighten with gladness,
and thine ear delight in the harp. Dreadful as the
storm of thine ocean, thou hast poured thy valour
forth ; thy voice has been like the voice of thou-
sands when they engage in war. Raise, to-morrow,
raise thy white sails to the wind, thou brother of
Agandecca ! Bright as the beam of noon, she
comes on my mournful soul. I have seen thy
tears for the fair one. I spared thee in the halls
of Stamo ; when my sword was red with slaugh-
ter; when my eye was full of tears for the
maid. Or dost thou choose the fight ? The com-
bat which thy fathers gave to Trenmor is thine !
that thou mayest depart renowned, like the sun
setting in the west !

' King of the race of Morven !' said the chief of
resounding Lochlin, ' never will Swaran fight with
thee, first of a thousand heroes ! I have seen thee
in the halls of Starno : few were thy years beyond
my own. When shall I, I said to my soul, lift the
spear like the noble Fingal ? We have fought here-
tofore, O warrior, on the side of the shaggy Mal-
mor; after my waves had carried me to thy halls,
and the feast of a thousand shells was spread. Let
the bards send his name who overcame to future

324 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

years, for noble was the strife of Malmor ! But
many of the ships of Lochlin have lost their youths
on Lena. Take these, thou king of Morven, and be
the friend of Swaran ! When thy sons shall come to
Gormal, the feast of shells shall be spread, and the
combat offered on the vale.'

' Nor ship,' replied the king, • shall Fingal take,
nor land of many hills. The desert is enough to
me, with all its deer and woods. Rise on thy
waves again, thou noble friend of Agandecca !
Spread thy white sails to the beam of the morning;
return to the echoing hills of Gormal.' — ' Blest be
thy soul, thou king of shells,' said Swaran of the
dark-brown shield. « In peace thou art the gale
of spring ; in war the mountain-storm. Take now
my hand in friendship, king of echoing Selma ! Let
thy bards mourn those who fell. Let Erin give the
sons of Lochlin to earth. Raise high the mossy
stones of their fame : that the children of the north
hereafter may behold the place where their fathers
fought. The hunter may say, when he leans on a
mossy tomb, Here Fingal and Swaran fought, the
heroes of other years. Thus hereafter shall he say,
and our fame shall last for ever.'

« Swaran,' said the king of hills, ' to-day our
fame is greatest. We shall pass away like a dream.
No sound will remain in our fields of war. Our
tombs will be lost in the heath. The hunter shall
not know the place of our rest. Our names may be
heard in song. What avails it, when our strength
hath ceased ? O Ossian, Carril, and Ullin ! you
know of heroes that are no more. Give us the song
of other years. Let the night pass away on the
sound, and morning return with joy.'

We gave the song to the kings. An hundred
harps mixed their sound with our voice. The face
of Swaran brightened, like the full moon of heaven ;
when the clouds vanish away, and leave her calm
and broad in the midst of the sky.

« Where Carril,' said the great Fingal, * Carril
of other times ! where is the son of Semo, the king
of the isle of mist? Has he retired like the meteor
of death, to the dreary cave of Tura ?'— « CuthuU

FIN GAL. 3: !fi

lin,' said C'arril of other times, * lies in the dreary
cave of Tura. His hand is on the sword of his
strength. His thoughts on the battles he lost.
Mournful is the king of spears: till now uncon-
quered in war. He sends his sword to rest on the
side of Fingal : for, like the storm of the desert,
thou hast scattered all his foes. Take, O Fingal !
the sword of the hero. His fame is departed like
mist, when it flies, before the rustling wind, along
the brightening vale.'

' No,' replied the king, ' Fingal shall never take
his sword. His arm is mighty in war: his fame
shall never fail. Many have been overcome in
battle; whose renown arose from their fall. O
Swaran, king of resounding woods, give all thy
grief away. The vanquished, if brave, are re-
nowned. They are like the sun in a cloud, when
he hides his face in the south, but looks again on
the hills of grass!

' Grumal was a chief of Cona. He sought the
battle on every coast. His soul rejoiced in blood;
his ear in the din of arms. He poured his warriors
on Craca ; Craca's king met him from his grove ;
for then, within the circle of Brumo, he spoke to
the stone of power. Fierce was the battle of the
heroes, for the maid of the breast of snow. The
fame of the daughter of Craca had reached Grumal
at the streams of Cona: he vowed to have the
white-bosomed maid, or die on echoing Craca.
Three days they strove together, and Grumal on the
fourth was bound. Far from his friends they
placed him in the horrid circle of Brumo; where
often, they said, the ghosts of the dead howled
round the stone of their fear. Dut he afterward-
shone, like a pillar of the light of heaven. They fell
by his mighty hand. Grumal had all his fame!

* Raise, ye bards of other times,' continued the
great Fingal, ' raise high the praise of heroes: that
my soul may settle on their fame; that the mind
of Swaran may cease to be sad.' They lay in the
heath of Mora. The dark winds rustled over the
chiefs. A hundred voices, at once, arose : a hun-
dred harps were strung. They sung of other times ;

326 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

the mighty chiefs of former years ! When now shall

I hear the bard ? When rejoice at the fame of my

fathers? The harp is not strung on Morven. The

voice of music ascends not on Cona. Dead, with

the mighty, is the bard. Fame is in the desert no

more.

Morning trembles with the beam of the east ; it
glimmers on Cromla's side. Over Lena is heard
the horn of Swaran. The sons of the ocean gather
around. Silent and sad they rise on the wave. The
blast of Erin is behind their sails. White, as the
mist of Morven, they float along the sea. « Call,'
said Fingal, ' call my dogs, the long-bounding
sons of the chase. Call white-breasted Bran, and
the surly strength of Luath ! Fillan, and Ryno ; —
but he is not here! My son rests on the bed of
death. Fillan and Fergus ! blow the horn, that
the joy of the chase may arise; that the deer of
Cromla may hear, and start at the lake of roes.

The shrill sound spreads along the wood. The
sons of heathy Cromla arise. A thousand dogs fly
off at once, gray-bounding through the heath. A
deer fell by every dog ; three by the white-breasted
Bran. He brought them, in their flight, to Fingal,
that the joy of the king might be great ! One deer
fell at the tomb of Ryno. The grief of Fingal re-
turned. He saw how peaceful lay the stone of him,
who was the first at the chase ! « No more shalt
thou rise, O my son ! to partake of the feast of
Cromla. Soon will thy tomb be hid, and the grass
grow rank on thy grave. The sons of the feeble
shall pass along. They shall not know where the
mighty lie.

' Ossian and Fillan, sons of my strength ! Gaul,
chief of the blue steel of war ! Let. us ascend the
hill to the cave of Tura. Let us find the chief of
the battles of Erin. Are these the walls of Tura;
gray and lonely they rise on the heath. The chief
of shells is sad, and the halls are silent and lonely.
Come, let us find Cuthullin, and give him all our
joy. But is that Cuthullin, O Fillan, or a pillar of
smoke on the heath ? The wind of Cromla is on my
eyes. I distinguish not my friend.'

FINGAL. 3'27

' Fingal !' replied the youth, • it is the son of
Semo ! Gloomy and sad is the hero! his hand is
on his sword. Hail to the son of battle, breaker of
the shields !' ' Hail to thee,' replied Cuthullin,
' hail to all the sons of Morven ! Delightful is thy
presence, O Fingal ! it is the sun on Cromla : when
the hunter mourns his absence for a season, and sees
him between the clouds. Thy sons are like stars
that attend thy course. They give light in the
night. It is not thus thou hast seen me, O Fingal !
returning from the wars of thy land: when the
kings of the world had fled, and joy returned to
the hills of hinds!'

' Many are thy words, Cuthullin,' said Connan
of small renown. ' Thy words are many, son of
Semo, but where are thy deeds in arms ? Why did
we come, over ocean, to aid thy feeble sword ? Thou
fliest to thy cave of grief, and Connan fights thy
battles. Resign to me these arms of light. Yield
them, thou chief of Erin.' — ■ No hero,' replied the
chief, ' ever sought the arms of Cuthullin ! and
had a thousand heroes sought them, it were in vain,
thou gloomy youth ! I fled not to the cave of grief
till Erin failed at her streams.'

' Youth of the feeble arm,' said Fingal, « Con-
nan, cease thy words ! Cuthullin is renowned in
battle : terrible over the world. Often have I heard
thy fame, thou stormy chief of Inis-fail. Spread
now thy white sails for the isle of mist. See Bra-
gela leaning on her rock. Her tender eye is in
tears, the winds lift her long hair from her heaving
breast. She listens to the breeze of night, to hear
the voice of thy rowers; to hear the song of the
sea: the sound of thy distant harp.'

' Long shall she listen in vain. Cuthullin shall
never return. How can I behold Bragela, to raise
the sigh of her breast? Fingal, I was always vic-
torious, in battles of other spears.' ' And here-
after thou shalt be victorious," said Fingal of gene-
rous shells. • The fame of Cuthullin shall grow,
like the branchy tree of Croma. Many battles
await thee, O chief! Many shall be the wounds of
thy hand ! Bring hither, Oscar, the deer ! Pre-

3<2li THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

pare the feast of shells. Let our souls rejoice after

danger, and our friends delight in our presence.'

We sat. We feasted. We sung. The soul of"
Cuthullin rose. The strength of his arm returned.
Gladness brightened along his face. Ullin gave the
song; Carril raised the voice. I joined the bards,
and sung of battles of the spear. Battles ! where
I often fought. Now I fight no more ! The fame of
my former deeds is ceased. I sit forlorn at the
tombs of my friends !

Thus the night passed away in song. We brought
back the morning with joy. Fingal arose on the
heath, and shook his glittering spear. He moved
first toward the plains of Lena. We followed in
all our arms.

' Spread the'sail..' said the king; ' seize the winds
as they pour from Lena.' We rose on the wave
with songs. We rushed, with joy, through the
foam of the deep.

LATHMON.

ARGUMENT.

[Lathmon, a British prince, taking advantage of
FingaFs absence on an expedition in Ireland,
made a descent on Morven, and advanced within
sight of Selma, the royal residence. Fingal ar-
rived in the mean time, and Lathmon retreated
to a hill, where his army was surprised by night,
and himself taken prisoner by Ossian and Gaul
the son of Morni. The poem opens with the first
appearance of Fingal on the coast of Morven, and
ends, it may be supposed, about noon the next
day.]

SELMA, thy halls are silent. There is no sound
in the woods of Morven. The wave tumbles alone
on the coast. The silent beam of the sun is on
the field. The daughters of Morven come forth,
like the bow of the shower ; they look towards
green Erin for the white sails of the king. He had
promised to return, but the winds of the north
arose !

Who pours from the eastern hill, like a stream
of darkness ? It is the host of Lathmon. He has
heard of the absence of Fingal. He trusts in the
winds of the north. His soul brightens with joy.
Why dost thou come, O Lathmon? The mighty
are not in Selma. Why comest thou with thy for-
ward spear ? Will the daughters of Morven fight ?
But stop, O mighty stream, in thy course ! Does
not Lathmon behold these sails? Why dost thou
vanish, Lathmon, like the mist of the lake? But
the squally storm is behind thee ; Fingal pursues
thy steps !

The king of Morven had started from sleep, as
we rolled on the dark blue wave. He stretched
his hand to his spear, his heroes rose around. We
knew that he had seen his fathers, for they often

330 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

descended to his dreams, when the sword of the foe
rose over the land; and the battle darkened before
us. ' Whither hast thou fled, O wind !' said the
king of Morven. Dost thou rustle in the chambers
of the south ? pursuest thou the shower in other
lands ? Why dost thou not come to my sails — to
the blue face of my seas ? The foe is in the land of
Morven, and the king is absent far. But let each
bind on his mail, and each assume his shield.
Stretch every spear over the wave ; let every sword
be unsheathed. Lathmon is before us with his
host; he that fled from Fingal on the plains of
Lona. But he returns, like a collected stream, and
his roar is between our hills.'

Such were the words of Fingal. We rushed into
Cannon's bay. Ossian ascended the hill : he thrice
struck his bossy shield. The rock of Morven re-
plied : the bounding roes came forth. The foe was
troubled in my presence ; he collected his darkened
host. I stood like a cloud on the hill, rejoicing in
the arms of my youth.

Morni sat beneath a tree, on the roaring waters
of Strumon: his locks of age are gray: he leans
forward on his staff"; young Gaul is near the hero,
hearing the battles of his father. Often did he rise
in the fire of his soul, at the mighty deeds of Morni.
The aged heard the sound of Ossian's shield ; he
knew the sign of war. He started at once from his
place. His gray hair parted on his back. He re-
membered the deeds of other years.

« My son,' he said to fair-haired Gaul, « I hear
the sound of war. The king of Morven is re-
turned ; his signals are spread on the wind. Go to
the halls of Strumon; bring his arms to Morni.
Bring the shield of my father's latter years, for my
arm begins to fail. Take thou thy armour, O
Gaul ! and rush to the first of thy battles. Let
thine arm reach to the renown of thy fathers. Be
thy course in the field like the eagle's wing. Why
shouldst thou fear death, my son ? the valiant fall
with fame; their shields turn the dark stream of
danger away ; renown dwells on their aged hairs.
Dost thou not see, O Gaul ! how the steps of my

LATHMON. 831

age are honoured ? Morni moves forth, and the
young men meet him, with silent joy, on his course.
But I never fled from danger, my son ! my sword
lightened through the darkness of war. The
stranger melted before me ; the mighty were blasted
in my presence.'

Gaul brought the arms to Morni : the aged war-
rior is covered with steel. He took the spear in his
hand, which was stained with the blood of the va-
liant. He came towards Fingal; his son attended
his steps. The son of Comhal arose before him
with joy, when he came in his locks of age.

' Chief of roaring Strumon !' said the rising soul
of Fingal ; ♦ do I behold thee in arms, after thy
strength has failed ? Often has Morni shone in
fight, like the beam of the ascending sun ; when he
disperses the storms of the hill, and brings peace to
the glittering fields. But why didst thou not rest
in thine age ? Thy renown is in the song. The
people behold thee, and bless the departure of
mighty Morni. AVhy didst thou not rest in thine
age ? The foe will vanish before Fingai i'

' Son of Comhal,' replied the chief, ' the strength
of Morni's arm has failed. I attempt to draw the
sword of my youth, but it remains in its place. I
throw the spear ; but it falls short of the mark. I
feel the weight of my shield. We decay like the
grass of the hill ; our strength returns no more. I
have a son, O Fingal ! his soul has delighted in
Morni's deeds ; but his sword has not been lifted
against a foe, neither has his fame begun. I come
with him to the war; to direct his arm in fight.
His renown will be a light to my soul, in the dark
hour of my departure. O that the name of Morni
were forgot among the people ! that the heroes
would only say, ' Behold the father of Gaul !'

* King of Strumon,' Fingal replied, ■ Gaul shall
lift the sword in fight. But he shall lift it before
Fingal; my arm shall defend his youth. But rest
thou in the halls of Selma, and hear of our renown.
Bid the harp to be strung, and the voice of the bard
to arise, that those who fall may rejoice in their
fame, and the soul of Morni brighten with joy.

SSt THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Ossian, thou hast fought in battles : the blood of
strangers is on thy spear ; thy course be with Gaul
in the strife ; but depart not from the side of Fin-
gal lest the foe should find you alone, and your
fame fail in my presence.'

«*I saw Gaul in his arms; my soul was mixed
with his. The fire of the battle was in his eyes ! he
looked to the foe with joy. We spoke the words of
friendship in secret ; the lightning of our swords
poured together ; for he drew them behind the
wood, and tried the strength of our arms on the
empty air.'

Night came down on Morven. Fingal sat at the
beam of the oak. Morni sat by his side with all his
gray waving locks. Their words were of other
times, of the mighty deeds of their fathers. Three
bards, at times, touched the harp : Ullin was near
with his song. He sung the mighty Comhal ; but
darkness gathered on Morni's brow. He rolled his
red eye on Ullin : at once ceased the song of the
bard. Fingal observed the aged hero, and he
mildly spoke : • Chief of Strumon, why that dark-
ness ? Let the days of other years be forgot. Our
fathers contended in war; but we meet together at
the feast. Our swords are turned on the foe of our
land : he melts before us on the field. Let the days
of our fathers be forgot, hero of mossy Strumon !'

• King of Morven,' replied the chief, ■ I remem-
ber thy father with joy. He was terrible in battle,
the rage of the chief was deadly. My eyes were
full of tears when the king of heroes fell. The
valiant fall, O Fingal ! the feeble remain on the
hills ! How many heroes have passed away in the
days of Morni! Yet I did not shun the battle;
neither did I fly from the strife of the valiant.
Now let the friends of Fingal rest, for the night is
around, that they may rise with strength to battle
against car-borne Lathmon. I hear the sound of
his host, like thunder moving on the hills. Ossian !
and fair-haired Gaul ! ye are young and swift in
the race. Observe the foes of Fingal from that

♦ Ossian speaks.

LATHMOX. 333

woody hill. But approach them not : your fathers
are not near to shield you. Let not your fame fall
at once. The valour of youth may fail !*

We heard the words of the chief with joy. We
moved in the clang of our arms. Our steps are on
the woody hill. Heaven burns with all its stars.
The meteors of death fly over the field. The di-
stant noise of the foe reached our ears. It was then
Gaul spoke, in his valour : his hand half-unsheathed
his sword.

' Son of Fingal!' he said, * why burns the soul
of Gaul ? my heart beats high. My steps are dis-
ordered ; my hand trembles on my sword. When I
look towards the foe my soul lightens before me.
I see their sleeping host. Tremble thus the souls
of the valiant in battles of the spear? How would
the soul of Morni rise if we should rush on the foe !
Our renown would grow in song : our steps would
be stately in the eyes of the brave.'

' Son of Morni,' I replied, 'my soul delights in
war. I delight to shine in battle alone, to give my
name to the bards. But what if the foe should pre-
vail ? can I behold the eyes of the king ? They are
terrible in his displeasure, and like the flames of
death. But I will not behold them in his wrath !
Ossian 'hall prevail or fall. But shall the fame of
the vanquished rise ? They "pass like a shade away.
But the fame of Ossian shall rise ! His deeds shall
be like his father's. Let us rush in our arms ;
son of Morni, let us rush to fight. Gaul, if thou
shouldst return, go to Selma's lofty hall. Tell to
Everallin that I fell with fame; carry this sword to
Branno's daughter. Let her give it to Oscar, when
the years of his youth shall arise.'

* Son of Fingal,' Gaul replied with a sigh, • shall
I return after Ossian is low ? What would my father
say ? What Fingal, the king of men ? The feeble
would turn their eyes and say, ' Behold Gaul, who
left his friend in his blood !' Ye shall not behold
me, ye feeble, but in the midst of my renown ! Os-
sian, I have heard from my father the mighty deeds
of heroes ; their mighty deeds when alone ! for the
soul increases in danger !'

351 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

* Son of Morni,' I replied, and strode before him
on the heath, ' our fathers shall praise our valour
when they mourn our fall. A beam of gladness
shall rise on their souls, when their eyes are full
of tears. They will say, * Our sons have not
fallen unknown : they spread death around them.'
But why should we think of the narrow house ?
The sword defends the brave. But death pursues
the flight of the feeble ; their renown is never
heard.'

We rushed forward through night ; we came to
the roar of a stream, which bent its blue course
round the foe, through trees that echoed to its
sound. We came to the bank of the stream and saw
the sleeping host. Their fires were decayed on the
plain ; the lonely steps of their scouts were distant
far. I stretched my spear before me, to support my
steps over the stream. But Gaul took my hand,
and spoke the words of the brave. ' Shall the son
of Fingal rush on the sleeping foe ? Shall he come
like a blast by night, when it overturns the young
trees in secret ? Fingal did not receive his fame,
nor dwells renown on the gray hairs of Morni, for
actions like these. Strike, Ossian, strike the shield,
and let their thousands rise ! Let them meet Gaul
in his first battle, that he may try the strength of
his arm.'

My soul rejoiced over the warrior: my bursting
tears came down. ! And the foe shall meet thee,
Gaul,' I said: ' the fame of Morni's son shall arise.
But rush not too far, my hero: let the gleam of
thy steel be near to Ossian. Let our hands join in
slaughter. Gaul ! dost thou not behold that rock ?
Its gray side dimly gleams to the stars. Should the
foe prevail, let our back be towards the rock. Then
shall they fear to approach our spears ; for death is
in our hands !'

I struck thrice my echoing shield. The starting
foe arose. We rushed on in the sound of our arms.
Their crowded steps fly over the heath. They
thought that the mighty Fingal was come. The
strength of their arms withered away. The sound
of their flight was like that of flame, when it rushes

LATHMON.

through the blasted groves. It was then the spear
of Gaul flew in its strength ; it was then his sword
arose. Cremor fell; and mighty Leth. Dunthormo
struggled in his blood. The steel rushed through
Crotho's side, as bent he rose on his spear; the
black stream poured from the wound, and hissed
on the half-extinguished oak. Cathmin saw the
steps of the hero behind him ; he ascended a blasted
tree; but the spear pierced him from behind.
Shrieking, panting, he fell. Moss and withered
branches pursue his fall, and strew the blue arms
of Gaul.

Such were thy deeds, son of Morni, in the first of
thy battles. Nor slept the sword by thy side, thou
last of Fingal's race ! Ossian rushed forward in his
strength ; the people fell before him ; as the grass
by the staff of the boy, when he whistles along the
field, and the gray beard of the thistle falls. But
careless the youth moves on ; his steps are towards
the desert. Gray morning rose around us; the wind-
ing streams are bright along the heath. The foe
gathered on a hill; and the rage of Lathmon rose.
He bent the red eye of his wrath: he is silent in his
rising grief. He often struck his bossy shield : and
his steps are unequal on the heath. I saw the di-
stant darkness of the hero, and I spoke to Morni's
son.

' Car-borne chief of Strumon, dost thou behold
the foe ? They gather on the hill in their wrath.
Let our steps be towards the king *. He shall rise
in his strength, and the host of Lathmon vanish.
Our fame is around us, warrior ; the eyes of the
aged t will rejoice. But let us fly, son of Morni,
Lathmon descends the hill.' • Then let our steps
be slow,' replied the fair-haired Gaul; 'lest the
foe say, with a smile, ' Behold the warriors of night !
They are, like ghosts, terrible in darkness ; they
melt away before the beam of the east.' Ossian
take the shield of Gormar, who fell beneath thy
spear. The aged heroes will rejoice, beholding the
deeds of their sons.'

* Fingal. t Fingal and Morni.

536 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Such were our words on the plain, when Sulmath
came to car-borne Lathmon: Sulmath chief of
Dutha at the dark-rolling stream of Duvranna.
' Why dost thou not rush, son of Nuath, with a
thousand of thy heroes ? Why dost thou not descend
with thy host, before the warriors fly ? Their blue
arms are beaming to the rising light, and their steps
are before us on the heath !'

'Son of the feeble hand,' said Lathmon, 'shall
my host descend ! They are but two, son of Dutha !
shall a thousand lift their steel ! Nuath would
mourn, in his hall, for the departure of his fame.
His eyes would turn from Lathmon, when the
tread of his feet approached. Go thou to the he-
roes, chief of Dutha ! I behold the stately steps of
Ossian. His fame is worthy of my steel ! let us con-
tend in fight.'

The noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the
words of the king. I raised the shield on my arm ;
Gaul placed in my hand the sword of Morni. We
return to the murmuring stream ; Lathmon came
down in his strength. His dark host rolled, like
clouds, behind him ; but the son of Nuath was bright
in his steel !

' Son of Fingal,' said the hero, ' thy fame has
grown on our fall. How many lie there of my
people by thy hand, thou king of men ! Lift now
thy spear against Lathmon ; lay the son of Nuath
low ! Lay him low among his warriors, or thou
thyself must fall! It shall never be told in my
halls that my people fell in my presence : that they
fell in the presence of Lathmon when his sword
rested by his side : the blue eyes of Cutha would
roll in tears; her steps be lonely in the vales of
Dunlathmon !'

' Neither shall it be told,' I replied, ' that the
son of Fingal fled. Were his steps covered with
darkness, yet would not Ossian fly ! His soul would
meet him and say, * Does the bard of Selma fear
the foe?' No: he does not fear the foe. His joy
is in the midst of battle !'

Lathmon came on with his spear. He pierced the
shield of Ossian. I felt the cold steel by my side.

lath Mux. 337

I drew the sword of Monti. I cut the spear in
twain. The bright point fell glittering on earth.
The son of Nuath burnt in his wrath. He lifted
high his sounding shield. His dark eyes rolled
above it, as, bending forward, it shone like a gate
of brass. But Ossian's spear pierced the brightness
of its bosses, and sunk in a tree that rose behind.
The shield hung on the quivering lance ! But Lath-
mon still advanced ! Gaul foresaw the fall of the
chief. He stretched his buckler before my sword;
when it descended, in a stream of light, over the
king of Dunlathmon !

Lathmon beheld the son of Morni. The tear
started from his eye. He threw the sword of his
fathers on the earth, and spoke the words of the
brave.

■ Why should Lathmon fight against the first of
men ? Your souls are beams from heaven ; your
swords the flames of death ! Who can equal the
renown of the heroes, whose deeds are so great in
youth ? O that ye were in the halls of Nuàth, in
the green dwelling of Lathmon ! Then would my
father say that his son did not yield to the weak.
But who comes, a mighty stream, along the echoing
heath? The little hills are troubled before him.
A thousand ghosts are on the beams of his steel;
the ghosts of those who are to fall by the king of
resounding Morven. Happy art thou, O Fingal !
thy sons shall fight thy wars. They go forth be-
fore thee; they return with the steps of their re-
nown !'

Fingal came, in his mildness, rejoicing in secret
over the deeds of his son. Morni's face brightened
with gladness. His aged eyes look faintly through
tears of joy. We came to the halls of Selma. We
sat around the feast of shells. The maids of song
came into our presence, and the mildly-blushing
Everallin ! Her hair spreads on her neck of snow,
her eye rolls in secret on Ossiau. She touched
the harp of music ! we blessed the daughter of
Branno !
i Fingal rose in his place, and spoke to Lathmon,
king of spears. The sword of Trenmor shook by
Q

358 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

his side, as high he raised his mighty arm. « Son
of Nuath,' he said, « why dost thou search for
fame in Morven ? We are not of the race of the
feeble ; our swords gleam not over the weak. When
did we rouse thee, O Lathmon, with the sound of
war ? Fingal does not delight in battle, though his
arm is strong ! My renown grows on the fall of
the haughty. The light of my steel pours on the
proud in arms. The battle comes ! and the tombs
of the valiant rise ; the tombs of my people rise, O
my fathers ! I at last must remain alone I But I
will remain renowned: the departure of my soul
shall be a stream of light. Lathmon ! retire to thy
place ! Turn thy battles to other lands ! The race
of Morven are renowned ; their foes are the sons of
the unhappy !'

DAR-THULA.

[It may not be improper here to give the story
which is the foundation of this poem, as it is
handed down by tradition. Usnoth, lord of
Etha, which is probably that part of Argyleshire
which is near Loch Eta, an arm of the sea in
Lorn, had three sons, Nathos, Althos, and Ardan,
by Slissàma, the daughter of Semo, and sister to
the celebrated Cuthullin. The three brothers,
when very young, were sent over to Ireland by
their father, to learn the use of arms under their
uncle Cuthullin, who made a great figure in that
kingdom. They werejust landed in Ulster, when
the news of Cuthullin's death arrived. Nathos,
though very young, took the command of Cu-
thullin's army, made head against Cairbar the
usurper, and defeated him in several battles.
Cairbar at last having found means to murder
Cormac, the lawful king, the army of Nathos
shifted sides, and he himself was obliged to re-
turn into Ulster, in order to pass over into
Scotland.

Dar-thula, the daughter of Colla, with whom
Cairbar was in love, resided at that time in Se-
làma, a castle in Ulster. She saw, fell in love,
and fled with Nathos ; but a storm rising at sea,
they were unfortunately driven back on that part
of the coast of Ulster where Cairbar was en-
camped with his army. The three brothers, after
having defended themselves for some time with
great bravery, were overpowered and slain, and
the unfortunate Dar-thula killed herself upon
the body of her beloved Nathos.

The poem opens on the night preceding the
death of the sons of Usnoth, and brings in by way
of episode what passed before. It relates the

340 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

death of Dar-thula differently from the common
tradition. This account is the most probable, as
suicide seems to have been unknown in those
early times, for no traces of it are found in the
old poetry.]

DAUGHTER of heaven, fair art thou ! the silence
of thy face is pleasant ! Thou comest forth in
loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in
the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O
moon! They brighten their dark-brown sides. Who
is like thee in heaven, light of the silent night ? The
stars are ashamed in thy presence. They turn away
their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from
thy course when the darkness of thy countenance
grows ? Hast thou thy hall, like Ossian ? Dwellest
thou in the shadow of grief? Have thy sistersfallen
from heaven ? Are they who rejoiced with thee, at
night, no more ? Yes ! they have fallen, fair light !
and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thy-
self shalt fail one night, and leave thy blue path in
heaven. The stars will then lift up their heads :
they, who were ashamed in thy presence, will re-
joice. Thou art now clothed with thy brightness.
Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud,
O wind ! that the daughter of night may look forth ;
that the shaggy mountains may brighten, and the
ocean roll its white waves in light.

Nathos is on the deep, and Althos, that beam of
youth. Ardan is near his brothers. They move in
the gloom of their course. The sons of Usnoth move
in darkness, from the wrath of Cairbar of Erin. Who
is that, dim by their side? The night has covered
her beauty ! Her hair sighs on ocean's wind. Her
robe streams in dusky wreaths. She is like the fan-
spirit of heaven in the midst of his shadowy mist.
Who is it but Dar-thula, the first of Erin's maids ?
She has fled from the love of Cairbar, with blue-
shielded Nathos. But the winds deceive thee, O
Dar-thula! They deny the woody Etha to thy sails.
These are not the mountains of Nathos ; nor is that
the roar of his climbing waves. The halls of Cairbar
are near: the towers of the foe lift their heads!

DAR-THULA. 341

Krin stretches its green head into the sea. Tura's
bay receives the ship. Where have ye been, ye
southern winds, when the sons of my love were de-
ceived ? But ye have been sporting on the plains,
pursuing the thistle's beard. O that ye had been
rustling in the sails of Nathos, till the hills of Etha
arose ! till they arose in their clouds, and saw their
retaining chief! Long hast thou been absent, Na-
thos ! the day of thy return is past !

But the land of strangers saw thee lovely ! thou
wast lovely in the eyes of Dar-thula. Thy face was
like the light of the morning. Thy hair like the
raven's wing. Thy soul was generous and mild, like
the hour of the setting sun. Thy words were the gale
of the reeds ; the gliding stream of Lora ! But when
the rage of battle rose, thou wast a sea in a storm.
The clang of thy arms was terrible: the host va-
nished at the sound of thy course. It was then
Dar-thula beheld thee, from the top of her mossy
tower: from the tower of Selima, where her fa-
thers dwelt.

• Lovely art thou, O stranger !' she said, for her
trembling soul arose. * Fair art thou in thy battles,
friend of the fallen Cormac ! Why dost thou rush
on in thy valour, youth of the ruddy look ? Few
are thy hands in fight against the dark-brown Cair-
bar ! O that I might be freed from his love, that I
might rejoice in the presence of Nathos ! Blest are
the rocks of Etha ! they will behold his steps at the
chase; they will see his white bosom, when the
winds lift his flowing hair !' Such were thy words,
Dar-thula, in Selàma's mossy towers. But now the
night is around thee. The winds have deceived
thy sails— the winds have deceived thy sails, Dar-
thula ! Their blustering sound is high. Cease a
little while, O north wind ! Let me hear the voice of
the lovely. Thy voice is lovely, Dar-thula, between
the rustling blasts !

' Are these the rocks of Nathos ?' she said, ' this
the roar of his mountain-streams? Comes that beam
of light from Csnoth's nightly hall ? The mist
spreads around; the beam is feeble and distant far.

3±2 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

But the light of Dar-thula's soul dwells in the chief
of Etha ! Son of the generous Usnoth, why that
broken sigh ? Are we in the land of strangers, chief
of echoing Etha?'

' These are not the rocks of Nathos,' he replied,-
' nor this the roar of his streams. No light comes
from Etha's halls, for they are distant far. We are
in the land of strangers, in the land of cruel Cair-
bar. The winds have deceived us, Dar-thula. Erin
lifts here her hills. Go towards the north, Althos :
be thy steps, Ardan, along the coast ; that the foe
may not come in darkness, and our hopes of Etha
fail. I will go towards that mossy tower, to see
who dwells about the beam. Rest, Dar-thula, on the
shore ! rest in peace, thou lovely light ! the sword
of Nathos is around thee, like the lightning of
heaven !'

He went. She sat alone; she heard the rolling of
the wave. The big tear is in her eye. She looks for
returning Nathos. Her soul trembles at the blast.
She turns her ear towards the tread of his feet. The
tread of his feet is not heard. ' Where art thou, son
of my love ! The roar of the blast is around me.
Dark is the cloudy night. But Nathos does not re-
turn. What detains thee, chief of Etha ? Have the
foes met the hero in the strife of the night ?'

He returned ; but his face was dark. He had seen
his departed friend ! It was the wall of Tura. The
ghost of Cuthullin stalked there alone: the sighing
of his breast was frequent. The decayed flame of his
eyes was terrible ! His spear was a column of mist.
The stars looked dim through his form. His voice
was like hollow wind in a cave : his eye a light seen
afar. He told the tale of grief. The soul of Nathos
was sad, like the sun in the day of mist, when his
face is watery and dim.

' Why art thou sad, O Nathos ?' said the lovely
daughter of Colla. ' Thou art a pillar of light to
Dar-thula. The joy of her eyes is in Etha's chief.
Where is my friend, but Nathos ? My father, my
brother is fallen ! Silence dwells on Selàma. Sad-
ness spreads on the blue streams of my land. My

DAR-THULA. 34J

friends have fallen with Cormac. The mighty were
slain in the battles of Erin. Hear, son of Usnoth !
hear, O Nathos ! my tale of grief.

« Evening darkened on the plain. The blue
streams failed before mine eyes. The unfrequent
blast came rustling, in the tops of Selàrna's groves.
My seat was beneath a tree, on the walls of my
fathers. Truthil past before my soul ; the brother
of my love : he that was absent in battle against
the haughty Cairbar ! Bending on his spear, the
gray-haired Colla came. His downcast face is dark,
and sorrow dwells in his soul. His sword is on the
side of the hero ; the helmet of his fathers on his
head. The battle grows in his breast. He strives
to hide the tear.

' ' Dar-thula, my daughter,' he said, « thou art
the last of Colla's race ! Truthil is fallen in battle.
The chief of Selàma is no more ! Cairbar comes,
with his thousands, towards Selama's walls. Colla
will meet his pride, and revenge his son. But
where shall I find thy safety, Dar-thula, with the
dark-brown hair ? thou art lovely as the sunbeam
of heaven, and thy friends are low!' 'Is the son
of battle fallen ?' I said, with a bursting sigh.
' Ceased the generous soul of Truthil to lighten
through the field ? My safety, Colla, is in that
bow. I have learned to pierce the deer. Is not
Cairbar like the heart of the desert, father of fallen
Truthil ?'

' The face of age brightened with joy. The
crowded tears of his eyes poured down. The lips
of Colla trembled. His gray beard whistled in the
blast. « Thou art the sister of Truthil,' he said ;
' thou burnest in the fire of his soul. Take, Dar-
thula, take that spear, that brazen shield, that
burnished helm ; they are the spoils of a warrior, a
son of early youth ! When the light rises on Se-
làma, we go to meet the car-borne Cairbar. But
keep thou near the arm of Colla, beneath the sha-
dow of my shield. Thy father, Dar-thula, could
once defend thee; but age is trembling on his hand.
The strength of his arm has failed. His soul is
darkened with grief.'

344 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

• We passed the night in sorrow. The light of
morning rose. I shone in the arms of battle. The
gray-haired hero moved before. The sons of Se-
làma convened around the sounding shield of Colla.
But few were they in the plain, and their locks were
gray. The youths had fallen with Truthil, in the
battle of car-borne Cormac. 'Friends of my youth,'
said Colla, • it was not thus you have seen me in
arms. It was not thus I strode to battle when the
great Confaden fell. But ye are laden with grief.
The darkness of age comes like the mist of the de-
sert. My shield is worn with years ! my sword is
fixed in its place * ! I said to my soul, Thy evening
shall be calm : thy departure like a fading light.
But the storm has returned. I bend like an aged
oak. My boughs are fallen on Selàma. I tremble
in my place. Where art thou with thy fallen he-
roes, O my beloved Truthil ? Thou answerest not
from thy rushing blast. The soul of thy father is
sad. But I will be sad no more ! Cairbar or Colla
must fall ! I feel the returning strength of my arm.
My heart leaps at the sound of war.'

« The hero drew his sword. The gleaming blades
of his people rose. They moved along the plain.
Their gray hair streamed in the wind. Cairbar sat
at the feast, in the silent plain of Lona. He saw
the coming of the heroes. He called his chiefs to
war. Why should I tell to Nathos how the strife
of battle grew ? I have seen thee in the midst of
thousands, like the beam of heaven's fire: it is
beautiful, but terrible; the people fall in its dread-
ful course. The spear of Colla flew. He remem-
bered the battles of his youth. An arrow came
with its sound. It pierced the hero's side. He fell
on his echoing shield. My soul started with fear.

* It was the custom of ancient times, that every
warrior, at a certain age, or when he became unfit
for the field, fixed his arms in the great hall, where
the tribe feasted upon joyful occasions. He was
afterwards never to appear in battle; and this stage
of life was called the ' time of fixing the arms.'

DAR-THULA. 345

I stretched my buckler over him; but my heaving
breast was seen ! Cairbar came with his spear. He
beheld Selàma's maid. Joy rose on his dark-brown
face. He stayed the lifted steel. He raised the
tomb of Colla. He brought me weeping to Selàma.
He spoke the words of love, but my soul was sad.
I saw the shields of my fathers ; the sword of car-
borne Truthil. I saw the arms of the dead; the
tear was on my cheek ! Then thou didst come, O
Nathos ! and gloomy Cairbar fled. He fled like the
ghost of the desert before the morning's beam. His
host was not near ; and feeble was his arm against
thy steel ! Why art thou sad, O Nathos ? said the
lovely daughter of Colla.

• I have met,' replied the hero, • the battle in
my youth. My arm could not lift the spear when
danger first arose. My soul brightened in the
presence of war, as the green narrow vale, when
the sun pours his streamy beams, before he hides
his head in a storm. The lonely traveller feels a
mournful joy. He sees the darkness that slowly
comes. My soul brightened in danger before I saw
Selàma's fair; before I saw thee, like a star that
shines on the hill at night : the cloud advances,
and threatens the lovely light ! We are in the land
of foes. The winds have deceived us, Dar-thula !
The strength of our friends is not near, nor the
mountains of Etha. Where shall I find thy peace,
daughter of mighty Colla ? The brothers of Nathos
are brave, and his own sword hath shone in fight.
But what are the sons of Usnoth to the host of
dark-browed Cairbar ? O that the winds had
brought thy sails, Oscar, king of men ! Thou
didst promise to come to the battles of fallen Cor-
mac ! Then would my hand be strong as the flaming
arm of death. Cairbar would tremble in his halls,
and peace dwell round the lovely Dar-thula. But
why dost thou fall, my soul? The sons of Usnoth
may prevail !'

* And they will prevail, O Nathos !' said the

rising soul of the maid. ' Never shall Dar-thula

behold the halls of gloomy Cairbar. Give me those

arms of brass, that glitter to the passing meteor.

Q2

346 THE POEMS OF OSSIAX.

I see them dimly in the dark-bosomed ship. Dar-
thula will enter the battle of steel. Ghost of the
noble Colla ! do I behold thee on that cloud ? Who
is that dim beside thee ? Is it the car-borne Tru-
thil? Shall I behold the halls of him that slew
Selàma's chief! No : I will not behold them, spirits
of my love!'

Joy rose in the face of Nathos when he heard
the white-bosomed maid. ' Daughter of* Selàma !
thou shinest along my soul. Come, with thy thou-
sands, Cairbar ! the strength of Nathos is returned !
Thou, O aged Usnoth ! shalt not hear that thy son
has fled. I remember thy words on Etha, when
my sails began to rise : when I spread them to-
wards Erin, towards the mossy walls of Tura !
• Thou goest,' he said, • O Nathos, to the king of
shields! Thou goest to Cuthullin, chief of men,
who never fled from danger. Let not thine arm be
feeble: neither be thy thoughts of flight; lest the
son of Semo should say, that Etha's race are weak.
His words may come to Usnoth, and sadden his soul
in the hall.' The tear was on my father's cheek.
He gave this shining sword !

« I came to Tura's bay ; but the halls of Tura
were silent. I looked around, and there was none
to tell of the son of generous Semo. I went to the
hall of shells, where the arms of his fathers hung.
But the arms were gone, and aged Lamhor sat in
tears. * Whence are the arms of steel ?' said the
rising Lamhor. ' The light of the spear has long
been absent from Tura's dusky walls. Come ye
from the rolling sea ? or from Temora's mournful
balls ?'

« « We come from the sea,' I said, ' from Usnoth's
rising towers. We are the sons of Slissàma, the
daughter of car-borne Semo. Where is Tura's chief,
son of the silent hall ? But why should Nathos
ask ? for I behold thy tears. How did the mighty
fall, son of the lonely Tura ?' « He fell not, Lam-
hor replied, 'like the silent star of night, when it
flies through darkness and is no more. But he
was like a meteor that shoots into a distant land.
Death attends its dreary course. Itself is the sign

DAR-THULA. 347

of wars. Mournful are the batiks of Lego; and
the roar of streamy Lara ! There the hero fell,
son of the noble Usnoth !' ' The hero fell in the
midst of slaughter,' I said with a bursting sigh.
' His hand was strong in war. Death dimly sat
behind his sword.

* We came to Lego's sounding banks. We found
his rising tomb. His friends in battle are there —
his bards of many songs. Three days we mourned
over the hero : on the fourth I struck the shield of
Caithbat. The heroes gathered round with joy,
and shook their beamy spears. Corlath was near
with his host, the friend of car-borne Cairbar. We
came like a stream by night. His heroes fell be-
fore us. When the people of the valley rose, they
saw their blood with morning's light. But we rolled
away, like wreaths of mist, to Cormac's echoing
hall. Our swords rose to defend the king. But
Temora's halls were empty. Cormac had fallen in
his youth. The king of Erin was no more !

' Sadness seized the sons of Erin. They slowly,
gloomily retired ; like clouds that long having
threatened rain, vanish behind the hills. The
sons of Usnoth moved, in their grief, towards
Tura's sounding bay. We passed by Selàma. Cair-
bar retired like Lano's mist, when driven before
the winds. It was then I beheld thee, O Dar-
thula ! like the light of Etha's sun. « Lovely is
that beam." I said. The crowded sigh of my
bosom rose. Thou earnest in thy beauty, Dar-
thula, to Etha's mournful chief. But the winds
have deceived us, daughter of Colla, and the foe
is near !'

' Yes, the foe is near,' said the rushing strength
of Althos. ' I heard their clanging arms on the
coast. I saw the dark wreaths of Erin's standard.
Distinct is the voice of Cairbar ; loud as Cromla's
falling stream. He had seen the dark ship on the
sea, before the dusky night came down. His
people watch on Lona's plain. They lift ten thou-
sand swords.' « And let them lift ten thousand
swords,' said Xathos with a smile. * The sons
of car-borne Usnoth will never tremble in dan-
ger ! Why dost thou roll with all thy foam,

348 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

thou roaring sea of Erin ? Why do ye rustle on
your dark wings, ye whistling storms of the sky f
Do ye think, ye storms, that ye keep Nathos on the
coast? No: his soul detains him, children of the
night ! Althos, bring my father's arms : thou seest
them beaming to the stars. Bring the spear of
Semo. It stands in the dark-bosomed ship !'

He brought the arms. Nathos covered his limbs
in all their shining steel. The stride of the chief is
lovely. The joy of his eyes was terrible. He looks
towards the coming of Cairbar. The wind is rus-
tling in his hair. Dar-thula is silent at his side.
Her look is fixed on the. chief. She strives to hide
the rising sigh. Two tears swell in her radiant eyes '

* Althos V said the chief of Etha, « I see a eave
in that rock. Place Dar-thula there. Let thy arm,
my brother, be strong. Ardan ! we meet the foe ;
call to battle gloomy Cairbar. O that he came in
his sounding steel, to meet the son of Usnoth ! Dar-
thula, if thou shalt escape, look not on the fallen
Nathos ! Lift thy sails, O Althos ! towards the
echoing groves of my land.

« Tell the chief that his son fell with fame ; that
my sword did not shun the fight. Tell him I fell in
the midst of thousands. Let the joy of his grief be
great. Daughter of Colla! call the maids to Etha's
echoing hall ! Let their songs arise for Nathos,
when shadowy autumn returns. O that the voice
of Cona, that Ossian might be heard in my praise !
then would my spirit rejoice in the midst of the
rushing winds.' ' And my voice shall praise thee,
Nathos, chief of the woody Etha ! The voice of Os-
sian shall rise in thy praise, son of the generous
Usnoth! Why was I not on Lena when the battle
rose? Then would the sword of Ossian defend
thee, or himself fall low !'

We sat that night in Selma, round the strength of
the shell. The wind was abroad in the oaks. The
spirit of the mountain* roared. The blast came rus-

* By the spirit of the mountain is meant that
deep and melancholy sound which precedes a storm,
well known to those who live in a high country.

DAR.THULA. o'i'J

tling through the hall, and gently touched my harp.
The sound was mournful and low, like the song of
the tomb. Fingal heard it the first. The crowded
sighs of his bosom rose. * Some of my heroes are
low,' said the gray-haired king of Morven. « I hear
the sound of death on the harp. Ossian, touch the
trembling string. Bid the sorrow rise, that their
spirits may fly with joy to Morven's woody hills!'
I touched the harp before the king; the sound was
mournful and low. ' Bend forward from your
clouds/ I said, 'ghosts of my fathers! bend. Lay
by the red terror of your course. Receive the falling
chief; whether he comes from a distant land, or
rises from the rolling sea. Let his robe of mist be
near ; his spear that is formed of a cloud. Place
an half-extinguished meteor by his side, in the form
of the hero's sword. And, oh ! let his countenance
be lovely, that his friends may delight in his pre-
sence. Bend from your clouds,' I said, ■ ghosts of
my fathers ! bend !'

Such was my song in Selma, to the lightly-trem-
bling harp. But Nathos was on Erin's shore, sur-
rounded by the night. He heard the voice of the
foe, amidst the roar of tumbling waves. Silent he
heard their voice, and rested on his spear ! Morning
rose, with its beams. The sons of Erin appear, like
gray rocks, with all their trees, they spread along
the coast. Cairbar stood in the midst. He grimly
smiled when he saw the foe. Nathcs rushed for-
ward in his strength : nor could Dar-thula stay be-
hind. She came with the hero, lifting her shining
spear. • And who are these, in their armour, in the
pride of youth ? Who but the sons of Usnoth, Al-
thos and dark-haired Ardan ?'

' Come,' said Nathos, 'come ! chief of high Te-
. mora ! Let our brittle be on the coast for the white-
bosomed maid. His people are not with Nathos ;
they are behind these rolling seas. Why dost thou
bring thy thousands against the chief of Etha ? Thou
didst fly from him in battle, when thy friends were
around his spear.' ' Youth of the heart of pride,
shall Erin's king fight with thee ? Thy fathers were

3à0 THE POEMS OF OSSIAX.

not among the renowned, nor of the kings of men.
Are the arms of foes in their halls ? or the shields of
other times ? Cairbar is renowned in Temora, nor
does he fight with feeble men !'

The tear started from car-borne Nathos. He
turned his eyes to his brothers. Their spears flew
at once. Three heroes lay on earth. Then the
light of their swords gleamed on high. The ranks of
Erin yield, as a ridge of dark clouds before a blast
of wind. Then Cairbar ordered his people, and
they drew a thousand bows. A thousand arrows
flew. The sons of Usnoth fell in blood. They fell
like three young oaks, which stood alone on the
hill : the traveller saw the lovely trees, and wondered
how they grew so lonely : the blast of the desert
came by night, and laid their green heads low.
Next day he returned, but they were withered, and
the heath was bare !

Dar-thula stood in silent grief, and beheld their
fall ! No tear is in her eye. But her look is wildly
sad. Pale was her cheek. Her trembling lips broke
short an half-formed word. Her dark hair flew on
wind. The gloomy Cairbar came. ' Where is thy
lover now ? the carborne chief of Etha ? Hast thou
beheld the halls of Usnoth ? or the dark-brown hills
of Fingal ? My battle would have roared on Mor-
ven, had not the winds met Dar-thula. Fingal him-
self would have been low, and sorrow dwelling in
Selma !' Her shield fell from Dar-thula's arm.
Her breast of snow appeared. It appeared ; but it
was stained with blood. An arrow was fixed in her
side. She fell on the fallen Nathos, like a wreath
of snow ! Her hair spreads wide on his face. Their
blood is mixing round !

' Daughter of Colla ! thou art low !' said Cair-
bar's hundred bards. • Silence is at the blue streams
of Selàma. Truthil's race have failed. When wilt
thou rise in thy beauty, first of Erin's maids? Thy
sleep is long in the tomb. The morning distant far.
The sun shall not come to thy bed and say, Awake,
Dar-thula ! awake, thou first of women ! the wind
of spring is abroad. The flowers shake their heads

DAR-TIIULA. Sqì

on the greeu hills. The woods wave their growing
leaves. Retire, O sun ! the daughter of C'olla is
asleep. She will not come forth in her beauty.
She will not move in the steps of her loveliness."

Such was the song of the bards, when they raised
the tomb. I sung over the grave, when the king
of Morven came : when he came to green Erin to
fight with car-borne Cairbar !

THE

DEATH OF CUTHULLIN.

[Cuthullin, after the arms of Fingal had expelled
Swaran from Ireland, continued to manage the
affairs of that kingdom as the guardian of Cormac,
the young king. In the third year of Cuthullin's
administration, Torlath, the son of Cantèla, re-
belled in Connaught, and advanced to Temora
to dethrone Cormac. Cuthullin marched against
him, came up with him at the lake of Lego, and
totally defeated his forces. Torlath fell in battle
by Cuthullin's hand ; but as he too eagerly pressed
on the enemy, he was mortally wounded. The
affairs of Cormac, though for some time sup-
ported by Nathos, as mentioned in the preceding
poem, fell into confusion at the death of Cuthul-
lin. Cormac himself was slain by the rebel Cair-
bar ; and the re-establishment of the royal family
of Ireland, by Fingal, furnishes the subject of
the epic poem of Temora.]

IS the wind on the shield of Fingal? Or is the
voice of past times in my hall ? Sing on, sweet
voice ! for thou art pleasant. Thou carriest away
my night with joy. Sing on, O Bragèla, daughter
of car-borne Sorglan !

'It is the white wave of the rock, and not Cu-
thullin's sails. Often do the mists deceive me for
the ship of my love ! when they rise round some
ghost, and spread their gray skirts on the wind.
Why dost thou delay thy coming, son of the gene-
rous Semo? Four times has autumn returned with
its winds, and raised the seas of Togorma*, since

* Togorma, i. e. « the island of blue waves/ one
of the Hebrides.

THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN. 353

thou hast been in the roar of battles, and Bragèla
distant far ! Hills of the isle of mist ! when will ye
answer to his hounds ? But ye are dark in your
clouds. Sad Bragèla calls in vain ! Night comes
rolling down. The face of ocean fails. The heath-
cock's head is beneath his wing. The hind sleeps
with the hart of the desert. They shall rise with
morning's light, and feed by the mossy stream.
But my tears return with the sun. My sighs come
on with the night. When wilt thou come in thine
arms, O chief of Erin's wars ?'

Pleasant is thy voice in Ossian's ear, daughter of
car-borne Sorglan ! But retire to the hall of shells;
to the beam of the burning oak. Attend to the
murmur of the sea: it rolls at Dunscài's walls: let
sleep descend on thy blue eyes. Let the hero arise
in thy dreams!

Cuthullin sits at Lego's lake, at the dark rolling
of waters. Night is around the hero. His thousands
spread on the heath. A hundred oaks burn in the
midst. The feast of shells is smoking wide. Carril
strikes the harp beneath a tree. His gray locks
glitter in the beam. The rustling blast of night is
near, and lifts his aged hair. His song is of the
blue Togorma, and of its chief, Cuthullin's friend !
1 Why art thou absent, Connal, in the day of the
gloomy storm ? The chiefs of the south have con-
vened, against the car-borne Cormac. The winds
detain thy sails. Thy blue waters roll around thee.
But Cormac is not alone. The son of Semo fights
his wars ! Semo's son his battles fights ! the terror
of the stranger ! He that is like the vapour of death,
slowly borne by sultry winds. The sun reddens in
its presence : the people fall around.'

Such was the song of Carril, when a son of the
foe appeared. He threw down his pointless spear.
He spoke the words of Torlath ; Torlath, chief of
heroes, from Lego's sable surge ! He that led his
thousands to battle, against car-borne Cormac. Cor-
mac who was distant far, in Temora's echoing halls:
he learned to bend the bow of his fathers ; and to lift
the spear. Nor long didst thou lift the spear, mildly-
shining beam of youth ! death stands dim behind

354 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

thee, like the darkened half of the moon behind its
growing light! Cuthullin rose before the bard,
that came from generous Torlath. He offered him
the shell of joy. He honoured the son of songs.
* Sweet voice of Lego !' he said, ' what are the
words of Torlath ? Comes he to our feast or battle,
the car-borne son of Cantèla ?'

' He comes to thy battle,' replied the bard, 'to
the sounding strife of spears. When morning is
gray on Lego, Torlath will fight on the plain. Wilt
thou meet him, in thine arms, king of the isle of
mist ? Terrible is the spear of Torlath ! it is a
meteor of night. He lifts it, and the people fall !
death sits in the lightning of his sword !' — « Do I
fear,' replied Cuthullin, 'the spear of car-borne
Torlath ? He is brave as a thousand heroes: but
my soul delights in war ! The sword rests not by
the side of Cuthullin, bard of the times of old !
Morning shall meet me on the plain, and gleam on
the blue arms of Semo's son. But sit thou on the
heath, O bard ! and let us hear thy voice. Partake
of the joyful shell : and hear the songs of Temora !'

* This is no time,' replied the bard, ' to hear the
song of joy : when the mighty are to meet in battle,
like the strength of the waves of Lego. Why art
thou so dark, Slimora ! with all thy silent woods ?
No star trembles on thy top. No moonbeam on thy
side. But the meteors of death are there : the gray-
watery forms of ghosts. Why art thou dark, Sli-
mora ! with thy silent woods ?' He retired, in the
sound of his song. Carril joined his voice. The
music was like the memory of joys that are past,
pleasant and mournful to the soul. The ghosts of
departed bards heard on Slimora's side. Soft sounds
spread along the wood. The silent valleys of night
rejoice. So, when he sits in the silence of the day,
in the valley of his breeze, the humming of the moun-
tain bee comes to Ossian's ear : the gale drowns it in
its course; but the pleasant sound returns again!
Slant looks the sun on the field ! gradual grows the
shade of the hill !

'Raise,' said Cuthullin, to his hundred bards,
' the song of the noble Fingal : that song which he

THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN. 5Ò3

hears at night, when the dreams of his rest descend :
when the bards strike the distant harp, and the faint
light gleams on Selma's walls. Or let the grief of
Lara rise : the s:ghs of the mother of Calmar, when
he was sought in vain on his hills ; when she be-
held his bow in the hall. Carril, place the shield
of Caithbat on that branch. Let the spear of Cu-
thullin be near; that the sound of my battle may
rise, with the gray beam of the east.'

The hero leaned on his father's shield : the song
of Lara rose ! The hundred bards were distant far :
Carril alone is near the chief. The words of the song
were his : the sound of his harp was mournful.

< Alcletha with the aged locks ! mother of car-
borne Calmar ! why dost thou look toward the de-
sert, to behold the return of thy son ? These are not
his heroes, dark on the heath : nor is that the voice
of Calmar. It is but the distant grove, Alcletha !
but the roar of the mountain-wind !— * ' Who bounds
over Lara's stream, sister of the noble Calmar ?
Docs not Alcletha behold his spear ? But her eyes
are dim ! Is it not the son of Matha, daughter of
my love ?'

♦ ' It is but an aged oak, Alcletha !' replied the
lovely weeping Alona. ■ It is but an oak, Alcletha,
bent over Lara's stream. But who comes along the
plain ? sorrow is in his speed. He lifts high the
spear of Calmar. Alcletha, it is covered with
blood !' — • * But it is covered with the blood of foes,
sister of car-borne Calmar ! His spear never re-
turned unstained with blood : nor his bow from
the strife of the mighty. The battle is consumed
in his presence : he is a flame of death, Alona ! —
Youth of the mournful speed ! where is the son of
Alcletha ? Does he return with his fame, in the
midst of his echoing shields ? Thou art dark and
silent! Calmar is then no more ! Tell me not, war-
rior, how he fell. I must not hear of his wound !'
Why dost thou look towards the desert, mother of
low-laid Calmar ?'

Such was the song of Carril, when Cuthullin lay

' Alcletha speaks.

356 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

on his shield. The bards rested on their harps.
Sleep fell softly around. The son of Semo was
awake alone. His soul was fixed on war. The
burning oaks began to decay. Faint red light is
spread around. A feeble voice is heard ! The ghost
of Calmar came ! He stalked dimly along the beam.
Dark is the wound in his side. His hair is disor-
dered and loose. Joy sits pale on his face. He
seems to invite Cuthullin to his cave.

'Son of the cloudy night!' said the rising chief
of Erin ; « why dost thou bend thy dark eyes on
me, ghost of the noble Calmar ? Wouldst thou
frighten me, O Matha's son ! from the battles of
Cormac ? Thy hand was not feeble in war : neither
was thy voice for peace. How art thou changed,
chief of Lara ! if thou now dost advise to fly ! Eut,
Calmar, I never fled. I never feared the ghosts of
night. Small is their knowledge, weak their hands ;
their dwelling is in the wind. But my soul grows
in danger, and rejoices in the noise of steel. Retire
thou to thy cave. Thou art not Calmar's ghost. He
delighted in battle. His arm was like the thunder
of heaven !' He retired in his blast with joy, for he
had heard the voice of his praise.

The faint beam of the morning rose. The sound
of Caithbat's buckler spread. Green Erin's warriors
convened, like the roar of many streams. The horn
of war is heard over Lego. The mighty Torlath
came. ' Why dost thou come with thy thousands,
Cuthullin ?' said the chief of Lego. ' I know the
strength of thy arm. Thy soul is an unextinguished
fire. Why fight we not on the plain, and let our
hosts behold our deeds ? Let them behold us like
roaring waves, that tumble round a rock; the ma-
riners hasten away, and look on their strife with
fear.'

' Thou risest, like the sun, on my soul,' replied
theson of Semo. ' Thine arm is mighty, O Torlath,
and worthy of my wrath. Retire, ye men of Ullin !
to Slimora's shady side. Behold the chief of Erin,
in the day of his fame. Carril ! tell to mighty Con-
nal, if Cuthullin must fall, tell him I accused the
winds, which roar on Togorma's waves. Never was

THE DEATH OF CUTHULLIN. 357
lie absent in battle, when the strife of my fame
arose. Let his sword be before Cormac, like the
beam of heaven. Let his counsel sound in Temora,
in the day of danger !'

He rushed, in the sound of his arms, like the ter-
rible spirit of Loda, when he comes in the roar of
a thousand storms, aud scatters battles from his
eyes. He sits on a cloud over Lochlin's seas. His
mighty hand is on his sword. Winds lift his flam-
ing locks ! The waning moon half-lights his dread-
ful face. His features blended in darkness arise to
view. So terrible was Cuthullin in the day of his
fame. Torlath fell by his hand. Lego's heroes
mourned. They gather around the chief, like the
clouds of the desert. A thousand swords rose at
once ; a thousand arrows flew ; but he stood like a
rock in the midst of a roaring sea. They fell around.
He strode in blood. Dark Slimora echoed wide.
The sons of Ullin came. The battle spread over
Lego. The chief of Erin overcame. He returned
over the field with his fame. But pale he returned !
The joy of his face was dark. He rolled his eyes
in silence. The sword hung, unsheathed, in his
hand. His spear bent at every step !

' Carril,' said the chief in secret, * the strength
of Cuthullin fails. My days are with the years
that are past. No morning of mine shall arise.
They shall seek me at Temora, but I shall not be
found. Cormac will weep in his hall, and say,
Where is Erin's chief? But my name is renowned;
my fame in the song of bards. The youth will say
in secret, O let me die as Cuthullin died ! Renown
clothed him like a robe. The light of his fame is
great, — Draw the arrow from my side. Lay Cuthul-
lin beneath that oak. Place the shield of Caithbat
near, that they may behold me amidst the arms of
my fathers !'

' And is the son of Semo fallen ?' said Carril
with a sigh. « Mournful are Tura's walls. Sorrow
dwells at Dunscai. Thy spouse is left alone in her
youth. The son of thy love is alone ! He shall come
to Bragela, and ask her why she weeps ? He shall
lift his eyes to the wall, and see his father's sword.

3o8 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Whose sword is that ? he will say. The soul of his
mother is sad. Who is that, like the hart of the
desert, in the murmur of his course ? His eyes look
wildly round in search of his friend. Connal, son
of Colgar, where hast thou been, when the mighty
fell? Did the seas of.Togorma roll around thee?
Was the wind of the south in thy sails ? The mighty
have fallen in battle, and thou wast not there. Let
none tell it in Selma, nor in Morven's woody land.
Fingal will be sad, and the sons of the desert
mourn !'

By the dark-rolling waves of Lego they raised
the hero's tomb. Luath, at a distance, lies. The
song of bards rose over the dead.

' * Blest be thy soul, son of Semo ! Thou wert
mighty in battle. Thy strength was like the strength
of a stream; thy speed like the eagle's wing. Thy
path in battle was terrible : the steps of death were
behind thy sword. Blest be thy soul, son of Semo,
car-borne chief of Dunscai ! Thou hast not fallen
by the sword of the mighty, neither was thy blood
on the spear of the brave. The arrow came, like
the sting of death in a blast: nor did the feeble
hand, which drew the bow, perceive it. Peace to
thy soul, in thy cave, chief of the isle of mist !

• The mighty are dispersed at Temora; there is
none in Cormac's hall. The king mourns in his
youth. He does not behold thy return. The sound
of thy shield is ceased: his foes are gathering
round. Soft be thy rest in thy cave, chief of Erin's
wars ! Bragèla will not hope for thy return, or see
thy sails in ocean's foam. Her steps are not on the
shore : nor her ear open to the voice of thy rowers.
She sits in the hall of shells. She sees the arms of
him that is no more. Thine eyes are full of tears,
daughter of car-borne Sorglan ! Blest be thy soul
in death, O chief of shady Tura !'

• This is the song of the bards over Cuthullin's tomb.

THE

BATTLE OF LORA.

[Fingal, on his return from Ireland, after he had
expelled Swaran from that kingdom, made a feast
to all his heroes; he forgot to invite Ma-ronnan
and Aldo, two chiefs, who had not been along
with him in his expedition. They resented his
neglect; and went over to Erragon, king of Sora,
a country of Scandinavia, the declared enemy of
Fingal. The valour of Aldo soon gained him a
great reputation in Sora : and Lorma, the beauti-
ful wife of Erragon, fell in love with him. He
found means to escape with her, and to come to
Fingal, who resided then in Selma, on the western
coast. Erragon invaded Scotland, and was slain
in battle by Gaul, the son of Morni, after he had
rejected terms of peace offered him by Fingal.
In this war Aldo fell, in a single combat, by the
hands of his rival Erragon, and the unfortunate
Lorma afterwards died of grief.]

SON of the distant land, who dwellest in the se-
cret cell! do I hear the sound of thy grove? or
is it thy voice of songs ? The torrent was loud in
ray ear ; but I heard a tuneful voice. Dost thou
praise the chiefs of thy land : or the spirits of the
wind ? But, lonely dweller of rocks ! look thou on
that heathy plain. Thou seest green tombs, witli
their rank, whistling grass : with their stones of
mossy heads. Thou seest them, son of the rock,
but Ossian's eyes have failed !

A mountain-stream comes roaring down, and
sends its waters round a green hill. Four mossy
stones, in the midst of withered grass, rear their
heads on the top. Two trees which the storms have
bent spread their whistling branches around. This
is thy dwelling, Erragon; this thy narrow house:

360 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

the sound of thy shells has been long forgot in
Sora. Thy shield is become dark in thy hall. Erra-
gon, king of ships ! chief of distant Sora ! how hast
thou fallen on our mountains ? How is the mighty
low ? Son of the secret cell : dost thou delight in
songs ? Hear the battle of Lora. The sound of
its steel is long since past. So thunder on the
darkened hill roars and is no more. The sun re-
turns with his silent beams. The glittering rocks,
and the green heads of the mountains, smile.

The bay of Cona received our ships from Erin's
rolling waves. Our white sheets hung loose to the
masts. The boisterous winds roared behind the
groves of Morven. The horn of the king is sound-
ed; the deer start from their rocks. Our arrows flew
in the woods. The feast of the hill is spread. Our
joy was great on our rocks, for the fall of the terri-
ble Swaran. Two heroes were forgot at our feast.
The rage of their bosoms burned. They rolled their
red eyes in secret. The sigh bursts from their
breasts. They were seen to talk together, and to
throw their spears on earth. They were two dark
clouds in the midst of our joy ; like pillars of mist
on the settled sea : they glitter to the sun, but the
mariners fear a storm.

* Raise my white sails,' said Ma-ronnan, « raise
them to the winds of the west. Let us rush, O
Aldo ! through the foam of the northern wave. We
are forgot at the feast: but our arms have been red
in blood. Let us leave the hills of Fingal, and serve
the king of Sora. His countenance is fierce. War
darkens around his spear. Let us be renowned, O
Aldo, in the battles of other lands !'

They took their swords, their shields of thongs.
They rushed to Lumar's resounding bay. They came
to Sora's haughty king, the chief of bounding
steeds. Erragon had returned from the chase. His
spear was red in blood. He bent his dark face to
the ground, and whistled as he went. He took the
strangers to his feast : they fought and conquered
in his wars.

Aldo returned with his fame towards Sora's lofty
walls. From her tower looked the spouse of Erra-

THE BATTLE OF LORA. 361

gon, the humid, rolling eyes of Lorma. Her yel-
low hair flies on the wind of ocean. Her white
breast heaves, like snow on heath: when thegentle
winds arise, and slowly move it in the light. She
saw young Aldo, like the beam of Sora's setting sun.
Her soft heart sighed. Tears filled her eyes. Her
white arm supported her head. Three days she sat
within tha hall, and covered her grief with joy. On
the fourth she fled with the hero, along the troubled
sea. They came to Cona's mossy towers, to Fingal
king of spears.

* Aldo of the heart of pride !' said Fingal, rising
in wrath : ' shall I defend thee from the rage of
Sora's injured king? Who will now receive my peo-
ple into their haUs ? Who will give the feast of
strangers, since Aldo, of the little soul, has disho-
noured my name in Sora ? Go to thy hills, thou
feeble hand ! Go : hide thee in thy caves. Mourn-
ful is the battle we must fight, with Sora's gloomy
king. Spirit of the noble Trenmor ! when will Fin-
gal cease to fight ? I was born in the midst of bat-
tles', and my steps must move in blood to the
tomb. But my hand did not injure the weak, my
steel did not touch the feeble in arms. I behold
thy tempests, O Morven ! which will overturn my
halls ! when my children are dead in battle, and
none Temains to dwell in Selma. Then will the
feeble come, but they will not know my tomb. My
renown is only in song. My deeds shall be as a
dream to future times !'

His people gathered around Erragon, as the
storms round the ghosts of night ; when he calls
them from the top of .Morven, and prepares to pour
them on the land of the stranger. He came to the
shore of Cona. He sent his bard to the king to
demand the combat of thousands ; or the land of
many hills ! Fingal sat in his hall with the friends
of his youth around him. The young heroes were

* Comhal, the father of Fingal, was slain in bat-
tle, against the tribe of Morni, the very day that
Fingal was born ; so that he may, with propriety,
be said to have been « born in the midst of battles.'
R

362 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

at the chase, far distant in the desert. The gray-
haired chiefs talked of other times ; of the actions
of their youth ; when the aged Nartmor came, the
chief of streamy Lora.

' This is no time,' said Nartmor, ' to hear the
songs of other years : Erragon frowns on the coast,
and lifts ten thousand swords. Gloomy is the king
among his chiefs ! he is like the darkened moon
amidst the meteors of night ; when they sail along
her skirts, and give the light that has failed o'er her
orb.' ' Come,' said Fingal, ' from thy hall, come,
daughter of my love : come from thy hall, Bosmina,
maid of streamy Morven ! Nartmor, take the steeds
of the strangers. Attend the daughter of Fingal !
Let her bid the king of Sora to our feast, to Selma's
shaded wall. Offer him, O Bosmina ! the peace of
heroes, and the wealth of generous Aldo. Our
youths are far distant. Age is on our trembling
hands V

She came to the host of Erragon, like a beam of
light to a cloud. In her right hand was seen a
sparkling shell. In her left an arrow of gold. The
first, the joyful mark of peace ! The latter, the
sign of war. Erragon brightened in her presence,
as a rock before the sudden beams of the sun; when
they issue from a broken cloud, divided by the
roaring wind !

» Son of the distant Sora,' began the mildly-blush-
ing maid, « come to the feast of Morven's king, to
Selma's shaded walls. Take the peace of heroes, O
warrior ! Let the dark sword rest by thy side.
Choosest thou the wealth of kings ? Then hear the
words of generous Aldo. He gives to Erragon an
hundred steeds, the children of the rein ; an hun-
dred maids from distant lands ; an hundred hawks
with fluttering wing, that fly across the sky. An
hundred girdles * shall also be thine, to bind high-

* Sanctified girdles, till very lately, were kept in
many families in the north of Scotland ; they were
bound about women in labour, and were supposed
to alleviate their pains, and to accelerate the
birth. They were impressed with several mystical

THE BATTLE OF LORA. 363

bosomed maids. The friends of the births of he-
roes. The cure of the sons of toil. Ten shells stud-
ded with gems shall Shine in Sora's towers : the
bright water trembles on their stars, and seems to
be sparkling wine. They gladdened once the kings
of the world*; in the midst of their echoing halls.
These, O hero ! shall be thine; or thy white-bo-
somed spouse. Lorma shall roll her bright eyes in
thy halls; though Fingal loves the generous Aldo :
Fingal, who never injured a hero, though his arm
is strong !'

• Soft voice of Cona !' replied the king, ' tell
him, he spreads his feast in vain. Let Fingal pour
his spoils around me. Let him bend beneath my
power. Let him give me the swords of his fathers :
the shields of other times; that my children may
behold them in my halls, and say, ' These are the
arms of Fingal.' ' Never shall they behold them
in thy halls," said the rising pride of the maid.
' They are in the hands of heroes, who never yield-
ed in war. King of echoing Sora ! the storm is ga-
thering on our hills. Dost thou not foresee the fall
of thy people, son of the distant land ?'

She came to Selma's silent halls. The king be-
held her downcast eyes. He rose from his place,
in his strength. He shook his aged locks. He took
the sounding mail of Trenmor — the dark-brown
shield of his fathers. Darkness filled Selma's hall,
when he stretched his hand to his spear : the ghosts
of thousands were near, and foresaw the death of
the people. Terrible joy rose in the face of the
aged heroes. They rushed to meet the foe. Their
thoughts are on the deeds of other years : and on
the fame that rises from death !

Now at Trathal's ancient tomb the dogs of the
chase appeared. Fingal knew that his young he-
roe* followed. He stopped in the midst of his

figures : and the ceremony of binding them about
the woman's waist was accompanied with words
and gestures which showed the custom to have
come originally from the Druids.

• The Roman emperors.

364 THE POEMS OF OSSIAX.

course. Oscar appeared the first ; then Morni's son,
and Nèmi's race. Fercuth showed his gloomy form.
Dermid spread his dark hair on wind. Ossian came
the last. I hummed the song of other times. My
spear supported my steps over the little streams.
My thoughts were of mighty men. Fingal struck
his bossy shield, and gave the dismal sign of war.
A thousand swords at once, unsheathed, gleam on
the waving heath. Three gray-haired sons of the
song raise the tuneful, mournful voice. Deep and
dark, with sounding steps, we rush, a gloomy ridge,
along : like the shower of the storm, when it pours
on a narrow v;;le.

The king of Morven sat on his hill. The sunbeam
of battle flew on the wind. The friends of his
youth are near, with all their waving locks of age.
Joy rose in the hero's eyes when he beheld his sons
in war: when he saw us amidst the lightning of
swords, mindful of the deeds of our fathers. Erra-
gon came on, in his strength, like the roar of a
winter stream. The battle falls around his steps :
death dimly stalks along by his side !

' Who comes,' said Fingal, ' like the bounding
roe; like the hart of echoing Cona ? His shield
glitters on his side. The clang of his armour is
mournful. He meets with Erragon in the strife !
Behold the battle of the chiefs ! It is like the con-
tending of ghosts in a gloomy storm. But fallest
thou, son of the hill, and is thy white bosom stained
with blood ? Weep, unhappy Lorma ! Aldo is no
more !' The king took the spear of his strength.
He was sad for the fall of Aldo. He bent his
deathful eyes on the foe : but Gaul met the king
of Sora. Who can relate the fight of the chiefs?
The mighty stranger fell ! ' Sons of Cona!" Fin-
gal cried aloud, ' stop the hand of death. Mighty
was he that is low. Much is he mourned in Sora !
The stranger will come towards his hall, and won-
der why it is so silent. The king is fallen, O
stranger. The joy of his house is ceased. Listen
to the sound of his woods. Perhaps his ghost is
murmuring there ! But he is far distant, on Mor-
ven, beneath the sword of a foreign foe.' Such

THE BATTLE OF LORA. 365

were the words of Fingal, when the bard raised the
song of peace. We stopped our uplifted swords.
We spared the feeble foe. We laid Erragon in a
tomb. I raised the voice of grief. The clouds of
night came rolling down. The ghost of Erragon
appeared to some, His face was cloudy and dark ;
an half-formed sigh is in his breast. • Blest be
thy soul, O king of Sora ! thine arm was terrible
in war !'

Lorma sat in Aldo's hall. She sat at the light
of a flaming oak. The night came down, but he
did not return. The soul of Lorma is sad ! ' What
detains thee, hunter of Cona ? Thou didst promise
to return. Has the deer been distant far? Do the
dark winds sigh, round thee, on the heath ? I am
in the land of strangers; who is my friend, but
Aldo? Come from thy sounding hills, O my best
beloved !'

Her eyes are turned toward the gate. She listens
to the rustling blast. She thinks it is Aldo's tread.
Joy rises in her face ! But sorrow returns again
like a thin cloud on the moon. ' Wilt thou not re-
turn, my love ? Let me behold the face of the hill.
The moon is in the east. Calm and bright is the
breast of the lake : When shall I behold his dogs,
returning from the chase ? When shall I hear his
voice, loud and distant on the wind ? Come from
thy sounding hills, hunter of woody Cona !' His
thin ghost appeared, on a rock, like a watery beam
of feeble light : when the moon rushes sudden
from between two clouds, and the midnight shower
is on the field. She followed the empty form over
the heath. She knew that her hero fell. I heard
her approaching cries on the wind, like the mourn-
ful voice of the breeze, when it sighs on the grass
of the cave !

She came. She found her hero ! Her voice was
heard no more. Silent she rolled her eyes. She
was pale and wildly sad ! Few were her days on
Cona. She sunk into the tomb. Fingal command-
ed his bards ; they sung over the death of Lorma.
The daughters of Morven mourned her, for one day
in the year, when the dark winds of autumn re-

366 THE POEMS OF OSSIAX,

Son of the distant land ! Thou dwellest in the
field of fame ! O let thy song arise, at times, in
praise of those who fell. Let their thin ghosts re-
joice around thee; and the soul of Lorma come on
a feeble beam ; when thou liest down to rest, and
the moon looks into thy cave. Then shnlt thou see
her lovely ; but the tear ifi still on her cheek !

TEMORA.

BOOK I.

[Cairbar, the son of Borbar-duthul, lord of Atha in
Connaught, the most potent chief of the raceof the
Fir-bolg, having murdered, at Temora, the royal
palace, Cormae the son of Artho, the young king
of Ireland, usurped the throne. Cormae was line-
ally descended from Conar the son of Trenmor,
the great-grandfather of Fingal, king of those Ca-
ledonians who inhabited the western coast of Scot-
land. Fingal resented the behaviour of Cairbar,
and resolved to pass over into Ireland with an
army, to re-establish the royal family on the Irish
throne. Early intelligence of his designs coining to
Cairbar, he assembled some of his tribes in Ulster,
and at the same time ordered his brother Cathmor
to follow him speedily with an army from Temora.
Such was the situation of affairs when the Cale-
donian invaders appeared on the coast of Ulster.

The poem opens in the morning. Cairbar is repre-
sented as retired from the rest of the army, when
one of his scouts brought him news of the land-
ing of Fingal. He assembles a council of his
chiefs. Foldath, the chief of Moma, haughtily
despises the enemy : and is reprimanded warmly
by Malthos. Cairbar, after hearing their debate,
orders a feast to be prepared, to which, by his
bard Olla, he invites Oscar, the son of Ossian ;
resolving to pick a quarrel with that hero, and so
have some pretext for killing him. Oscar came
to the feast; the quarrel happened; the followers
of both fought, and Cairbar and Oscar fell by mu-
tual wounds. The noise of the battle reached
Fingal's army. The king came on to the relief
of Oscar, and the Irish fell back to the army of
Cathmor, who was advanced to the banks of the
river Luban, on the heath of Moi-lena. Fingal,
after mourning over his grandson, ordered Ullin
the chief of his bards to carry his body to Morven,

368 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

to be there interred. Night coming on, Althan,
the son of Conachar, relates to the king the par-
ticulars of the murder of Cormae. Fillan, the son
of Fingal, is sent to observe the motions of Cath-
mor by night, which concludes the action of the
first day. The scene of this book is a plain, near
the hill of Mora, which rose on the borders of
the heath of Moi-lena in Ulster.]

THE blue waves of Erin roll in light. The moun-
tains are covered with day. Trees shake their
dusky heads in the breeze. Gray torrents pour their
noisy streams. Two green hills, with aged oaks,
surround a narrow plain. The blue course of a
stream is there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha.
His spear supports the king : the red eye of his fear
is sad. Cormae rises in his soul, with all his ghastly
wounds. The gray form of the youth appears in
darkness. Blood pours from his airy side. Cair-
bar thrice threw his spear on earth. Thrice lie
stroked his beard. His steps are short. He often
stops. He tosses his sinewy arms. He is like a eloud
in the desert, varying its form to every blast. The
valleys are sad around, and fear, by turns, the show-
er ! The king at length resumed his soul. He took
his pointed spear. He turned his eye to Moi-lena.
The scouts of blue ocean came. They came with
steps of fear, and often looked behind. Cairbar
knew that the mighty were near! He called his
gloomy chiefs.

The sounding steps of his warriors came. They
drew at once their swords. There Morlath stood
with darkened face. Hidalla's longhair sighs in the
wind. Red-haired Cormar bends on his spear, and
rolls his sidelong-looking eyes. Wild is the look of
Malthos from beneath two shaggy brows. Foldath
stands, like an oozy rock, that covers its dark sides
with foam. His spear is like Slimora's fir, that meets
the wind of heaven. His shield is marked with the
strokes of battle. His red eye despises danger.
These and a thousand other chiefs surrounded the
king of Erin, when the scout of ocean came, Mor-an-
nal, from streamy Moi-lena. His eyes hang for-
ward from his face. His lips are trembling pale.'

TEMORA. 369

' Do the chiefs of Erin stand,' he said, * silent
as the grove of evening ? Stand they, like a silent
wood, and Finga! on the coast ? Fingal, who is ter-
rible inbattle, the king of streamy Morven !' « Hast
thou seen the warrior ?' said Cairbar with a sigh.
'Are his heroes many on the coast ? Lifts he the
spear of battle ? or comes the king in peace ?' < In
peace he comes not, king of Erin ! I have seen his
forward spear *. It is a meteor of death. The blood
of thousands is on its steel. He came first to the
shore, strong in the gray hair of age. Full rose his
sinewy limbs, as he strode in his might. That sword
is by his side, which gives no second wound. His
shield is terrible, like the bloody moon, ascending
through a storm. Then came Ossian, king of songs.
Then Morni's son, the first of men. Connal leaps
forward on his spear. Dermid spreads his dark-
brown locks. Fillan bends his bow, the young
hunter of streamy Moruth. But who is that be-
fore them, like the terrible course of a stream ! It
is the son of Ossian, bright between his locks! His
long hair falls on his back. His dark brows are
half enclosed in steel. His sword hangs loose on
his side. His spear glitters as he moves. I fled
from his terrible eyes, king of high Temora !'

• Then fly, thou feeble man !' said Foldath's
gloomy wrath. ' Fly to the gray streams of thy
land, son of the little soul ! Have not I seen that
Oscar ? I beheld the chief in war. He is of the
mighty in danger : but there are others who lift the
spear. Erin has many sons as brave, king of Temor3
of groves! Let Foldath meet him in his strength,

* Mor-annal here alludes to the particular ap-
pearance of Fingal's spear. If a man, upon his first
landing in a strange country, kept the point of his
spear forward, it denoted in those days that he
came in a hostile manner, and accordingly he was
treated as an enemy : if he kept the point behind
him, it was a token of friendship, and he was im-
mediately invited to the feast, according to the
hospitality of the times.

R 2

370 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Let me stop this mighty stream. My spear is covered

with blood. My shield is like the wall of Tura !'

' Shall Folilath alone meet the foe ?' replied the
dark-browed Malthos. 'Are they not on our coast,
like the waters of many streams ? Are not these the
chiefs who vanquished Swaran, when the sons of
green Erin fled ? Shall Foldath meet their bravest
hero ? Foldath of the heart of pride ! Take the
strength of the people ! and let Malthos come. My
sword is red with slaughter, but who has heard my
words ?'

•Sons of green Erin,' said Hidalla, *let not
Fingal hear your words. The foe might rejoice,
aud his arm be strong in the land. Ye are brave,
O warriors ! Ye are tempests in war. Ye are like
storms, which meet the rocks without fear, and
overturn the woods. But let us move in our
strength, slow as a gathered cloud ! Then shall the
mighty tremble ; the spear shall fall from the hand
of the valiant. We see the cloud of death, they
will say, while shadows fly over their face. Fingal
will mourn in his age. He shall behold his flying
fame. The steps of his chiefs will cease in Morven.
The moss of years ^shall grow in Selma.'

Cairbar heard their words, in silence, like the
cloud of a shower : it stands dark on Cromla, till
the lightning buists its side. The valley gleams with
heaven's flame; the spirits of the storm rejoice.
So stood the silent king of Temora ; at length his
words broke forth. ' Spread the feast on Moi-lena.
Let my hundred bards attend. Thou red-haired
Olla, take the harp of the king. Go to Oscar, chief
of swords. Bid Oscar to our joy. To-day we feast <
and hear the song: to-morrow break the spears!
Tell him that I have raised the tomb of Cathol ;
that bards gave his friend to the winds. Tell him
that Cairbar has heard of his fame, at the stream of
resounding Carun. Cathmor my brother is not here.
He is not here with his thousands, and our arms are
weak. Cathmor is a foe to strife at the feast ! His
soul is bright as that sun ! But Cairbar must fight
with Oscar, chiefs of woody Temora ! His words for
Cathol were many : the wrath of Cairbar burns.

TEMORA. 371

Me shall fall on Moi-lena. My fame shall rise in
blood.'

Their faces brightened round with joy. They
spread over Moi-lena. The feast of shells is pre-
pared. The songs of bards arise. The chiefs of
Selma heard their joy. We thought that mighty
Cathmor came. Cathmor, the friend of strangers !
the brother of red-haired Cairbar. Their souls
were not the same. The light of heaven was in the
bosom of Cathmor. His towers rose on the banks
of Atha; seven paths led to his halls; seven chiefs
stood on the paths, and called the stranger to the
feast ! But Cathmor dwelt in the wood, to shun the
voice of praise !

Olla came with his songs. Oscar went to Cair-
bar's feast. Three hundred warriors strode along
Moi-lena of the streams. The gray dogs bounded
on the heath : their howling reached afar. Fingal
saw the departing hero. The soul of the king was
sad. He dreaded Cairbar's gloomy thoughts, amid
the feast of shells. My son raised high the spear of
Cormac. An hundred bards met him with songs.
Cairbar concealed, with smiles, the death that was
dark in his soul. The feast is spread. The shells
resound. Joy brightens the face of the host. But it
was like the parting beam of the sun, when he is to
hide his red head in a storm !

Cairbar rises in his arms. Darkness gathers on his
brow. The hundred harps cease at once. The clang
of shields * is heard. Far distant on the heath Olla
raised a song of woe. My son knew the sign of
death ; and rising seized his spear. « Oscar,' said
the dark-red Cairbar, • I behold the spear of Erin.
The spear of Temora glitters in thy hand, son of
woody Morven ! It was the pride of an hundred
kings — the death of heroes of old. Yield it, son of
Ossian, yield it to car-borne Cairbar !'

* When a chief was determined to kill a person
already in his power, it was usual to signify that
his death was intended, by the sound of a shield
struck with the blunt end of a spear : at the same
time that a bard at a distance raised the death-song.

372 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

' Shall I yield,' Oscar replied, « the gift of Erin's
injured king; the gift of fair-haired Cormac, when
Oscar scattered his foes ? I came to Cormac's halls
of joy, when Swaran fled from Fingal. Gladness rose
in the face of youth. He gave the spear of Temora.
Nor did he give it to the feeble : neither to the weak
in soul. The darkness of thy face is no storm to
me : nor are thine eyes the flame of death. Do I fear
thy clanging shield ? Tremble I at Olla's song ?
No : Cairbar, frighten the feeble ; Oscar is a rock !'
' Wilt thou not yield the spear ?' replied the rising
pride of Cairbar. ' Are thy words so mighty, be-
cause Fingal is near ? Fingal with aged locks, from
Morven's hundred groves ! He has fought with lit-
tle men. But he must vanish before Cairbar, like
a thin pillar of mist before the winds of Atha !' —
« Were he who fought with little men near Atha's
haughty chief, Atha's chief would yield green Erin
to avoid his rage ! Speak not of the mighty, O Cair-
bar ! Turn thy sword on me. Our strength is equal :
but Fingal is renowned ! the first of mortal men !'
Their people saw the darkening chiefs. Their
crowding steps are heard around. Their eyes roll
in fire. A thousand swords are half unsheathed.
Red-haired Olla raised the song of battle. The
trembling joy of Oscar's soul arose — the wonted joy
of his soul when Fingal's horn was heard. Dark as
the swelling wave of ocean before the rising winds,
when it bends its head near the coast, came on the
host of Cairbar !

Daughter of Toscar ! why that tear ? He is not
fallen yet. Many were the deaths of his arm before
my hero fell !

Behold, they fall before my son, like groves in the
desert ; when an angry ghost rushes through night,
and takes their green heads in his hand ! Morlath
falls. Maronnan dies. Conachar trembles in his
blood ! Cairbar shrinks before Oscar's sword I He
creeps in darkness behind a stone. He lifts the spear
in secret; he pierces my Oscar's side ! He falls for-
ward on his shield; his knee sustains the chief.
But still his spear is in his hand. See gloomy Cair-
bar falls ! The steel pierced his forehead, and divided

TEMORA. 373

his red hair behind. He lay, like a shattered roek,
which Cromla shakes from its shaggy side, when
the green-valleyed Erin shakes its mountains from
sea to sea !

But never more shall Oscar rise ! He leans on his
bossy shield. His spear is in his terrible hand.
Erin's sons stand distant and dark. Their shouts
arise, like crowded streams. Moi-lena echoes wide.
Fingal heard the sound. He took the spear of Sel-
ma. His steps are before us on the heath. He spoke
the words of woe. • I hear the noise of war.
Young Oscar is alone. Rise, sons of Morven : join
the hero's sword !'

Ossian rushed along the heath. Fillan bounded
over Moi-lena. Fingal strode in his strength. The
light of his shield is terrible. The sons of Erin saw
it far distant. They trembled in their souls. They
knew that the wrath of the king arose : and they
foresaw their death. We first arrived. We fought.
Erin's chiefs withstood our rage. But when the king
came, in the sound of his course, what heart of steel
could stand ! Erin fled over Moi-lena. Death pur-
sued their flight. We saw Oscar on his shield. We
saw his blood around. Silence darkened every face
Each turned his back and wept. The king strove to
hide his tears. His gray beard whistled in the
wind. He bends his head above the chief. His
words are mixed with sighs.

• Art thou fallen, O Oscar ! in the midst of thy
course ? the heart of the aged beats over thee ! He
sees thy coming wars ! The wars which ought to
come he sees ! They are cut off from thy fame !
When shall joy dwell at Selma ? When shall gTief
depart from Morven ? My sons fall by degrees :
Fingal is the last of his race. My fame begins to
pass away. Mine age will be without friends. I
shall sit a gray cloud in my hall. I shall not hear
the return of a son, in his sounding arms. Weep,
ye heroes of Morven ! never more shall Oscar rise !'

And they did weep, O Fingal ! Dear was the hero
to their souls. He went out to battle, and the foes
vanished. He returned, in peace, amidst their joy.
No father mourned his son slain in youth : nobro-

374 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

ther his brother of love. They fell without tears,
for the chief of the people is low ! Bran is howling
at his feet : gloomy Liiuth is sad ; for he had often
led them to the chase ; to the bounding roe of the
desert !

When Oscar saw his friends around, his heaving
breast arose. • The groans,' he said, ' of aged
chiefs ; the howling of my dogs ; the sudden bursts
of the song of grief, have melted Oscar's soul — my
soul, that never melted before. It was like the steel
of my sword. Ossian, carry me to my hills! Raise
the stones of my renown. Place the horn of a deer :
place my sword by my side. The torrent hereafter
may raise the earth : the hunter may find the steel
and say, « This has been Oscar's sword, the pride of
other years !' ' * Fallest thou, son of my fame ? shall
I never see thee, Oscar? When others hear of their
sons, shall I not hear of thee ? The moss is on thy
four gray stones. The mournful wind is there. The
battle shall be fought without thee. Thou shalt not
pursue the dark-brown hinds. When the warrior re-
turns from battles, and tells of other lands; ' I have
seen a tomb,' he will say, ' by the roaring stream,
the dark dwelling of a chief. He fell by car-borne
Oscar, the first of mortal men.' I, perhaps, shall
hear his voice. A beam of joy will rise in my soul !'

Night would have descended in sorrow, and morn-
ing returned in the shadow of grief. Our chiefs
would have stood, like cold dropping rocks on Moi-
leiia, and have forgot the war; did not the king dis-
perse his grief, and raise his mighty voice. The
chiefs, as new-wakened from dreams, lift up their
heads around.

' How long on Moi-lena shall we weep ? How
long pour in Erin our tears ? The mighty will not
return. Oscar shall not rise in his strength. The
valiant must fall in their day, and be nomorc known
on their hills. Where are our fathers, O warriors !
the chiefs of the times of old ? They have set, like
stars, that have shone. We only hear the sound of
their praise. But they were renowned in their years —
the terror of other times. Thus shall we pass away,
in the day of our fall. Then let us be renowned

TEMORA. 375

when we may ; and leave our fame behind us, like
the last beams of the sun, when he hides his red head
in the west. The traveller mourns his absence,
thinking of the flame of his beams. Ullin, my aged
bard ! take thou the ship of the king, tarry Oscar
to Selma of harps. Let the daughters of Morven
weep. We must fight in Erin, for the race of fallen
Cormac. The days of my years begin to fail. I feel
the weakness of my arm. My fathers bend from
their clouds, to receive their gray-haired son. But
before I go bence, one beam of fame shall rise. My
days shall end, as my years begun, in fame. My life
shall be one stream of light to bards of other times !

Ullin raised his white sails. The wind of the south
came forth. He bounded on the waves towards
Selma. I remained in my grief, but my words were
not heard. The feast is spread on Moi-lena. An
hundred heroes reared the tomb of Cairbar. No
song is raised over the chief. His soul has been
dark and bloody. The bards remembered the fall of
Cormae ! what could they say in Cairbar's praise ?

Night came rolling down. The light of an hun-
dred oaks arose. Fingal sat beneath a tree. Old
Althan stood in the midst. He told the tale of fallen
Cormac. Althan the son of Conachar, the friend
of car-borne Cuthullin. He dwelt with Cormac in
windy Temora, when Semo's son fell at Lego's
stream. The tale of Althan was mournful. The
tear was in his eye when he spoke.

* The setting sun was yellow on Dora. Gray
evening began to descend. Temora's woods shook
with the blast of the inconstant wind. A cloud ga-
thered in the west. A red star looked from behind
its edge. I stood in the wood alone. I saw a ghost
on the darkening air ! His stride extended from hill
to hill. His shield was dim on his side. It was the
son of Semo. I knew the warrior's face. But he
passed away in his blast ; and all was dark around !
My soul was sad. I went to the hall of shells. A
thousand lights arose. The hundred bards had
strung the harp. Cormac stood in the midst, like
the morning star, when it rejoices on the eastern
hill, and its young beams are bathed in showers.

376 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Bright and silent is its progress aloft, but the cloud,
that shall hide it, is near! The sword of Artho was
in the hand of the king. He looked with joy on its
polished studs : thrice he attempted to draw it, and
thrice he failed; his yellow locks are spread on his
shoulders ! his cheeks of youth are red. I mourned
over the beam of youth, for he was soon to set !'

' Althan !' he said with a smile, ' didst thou be-
hold my father ? Heavy is the sword of the king ;
surely his arm was strong. O that I were like him
in battle, when the rage of his wrath arose Ì then
would I have met with Cuthullin, the car-borne son
of Cantèla ! But years may come on, O Althan !
and my arm be strong. Hast thou heard of Semo's
son, the ruler of high Temora Ì He might have re-
turned with his fame. He promised to return to-
night My bards wait him with songs. My feast is
spread in the hall of kings.'

I heard Cormac in silence. My tears began to
flow. I hid them with my aged locks. The king
perceived my grief. ' Son of Conachar !' he said,
' is the son of Semo low ? Why bursts the sigh in
secret ? Why descends the tear ? Comes the car-
borne Torlath ? Comes the sound of red-haired
Cairbar ? They come! for I behold thy grief. Mossy
Tura's chief is low ! Shall I not rush to battle? But
I cannot lift the spear ! O had mine arm the strength
of Cuthullin, soon would Cairbar fly ; the fame of
my fathers would be renewed; and the deeds of
other times !'

He took his bow. The tears flow down, from both
his sparkling eyes. Grief saddens round. The bards
bend forward, from their hundred harps. The lone
blast touched their trembling strings. The sound *
is sad and low ! A voice is heard at a distance, as
of one in grief. It was Carril of other times, who
came from dark Slimora. He told of the fall of
Cuthullin. He told of his mighty deeds. The peo-
ple were scattered round his tomb. Their arms lay

* That prophetic sound, mentioned in other
poems, which the harps of the bards emitted before
the death of a person worthy and renowned.

TEMORA. 377

on the ground. They had forgot the war, for he,
their sire, was seen no more !'

' But who,' said the soft-voiced Carril, ' who
comes like bounding roes? Their stature is like
young trees in the valley, growing in a shower !
Soft and ruddy are their cheeks ! Fearless souls
look forth from their eyes ! Who but the sons of
Usnoth, chief of streamy Etna ? The people rise on
every side, like the strength of an half-extinguished
fire, when the winds come, sudden, from the desert,
on their rustling wings. Sudden glows the dark
brow of the hill; the passing mariner lags, on his
winds. The sound of Caithbat's shield was heard,
The warriors saw Cuthullin in Nathos. So rolled
his sparkling eyes ! his steps were such on the heath !
Battles are fought at Lego. TIip sword of Nathos
prevails. Soon shalt thou behold him in thy halls,
king of Temora of groves !'

' Soon may I behold the chief !' replied the blue-
eyed king. « But my soul is sad for Cuthullin. His
voice was pleasant in mine ear. Often have we
moved, on Dora, to the chase of the dark-brown
hinds. His bow was unerring on the hills. He
spoke of mighty men. He told of the deeds of my
fathers. I felt my rising joy. But sit thou at the
feast, O Carril ! I have often heard thy voice. Sing
in praise of Cuthullin. Sing of Nathos of Etha !'

Day rose on Temora, with all the beams of the
east. Crathin came to the hall, the son of old Gel-
lama. • I behold,' he said, « a cloud in the desert,
king of Erin ! a cloud it seemed at first, but now a
crowd of men ! One strides before them in his
strength. His red hair flies in wind. His shield
glitters to the beam of the east. His spear is in his
hand.' — « Call him to the feast of Temora,' replied
the brightening king. ' My hall is the house of
strangers, son of generous Gellàma ! It is perhaps
the chief of Etha, coming in all his renown. Hail,
mighty stranger ! art thou of the friends of Cormac ?
But, Carril, he is dark and unlovely. He draws his
sword. Is that the son of Usnoth, bard of the times
of old ?'

■ It is not the son of Usnoth !' said Carril. ' It

378 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

is Cairbar, thy foe.' ' Why comestthou in thy arms
to Temora, chief of the gloomy brow ? Let not thy
sword rise against Cormac ! Whither dost thou turn
thy speed ?' He passed on in darkness. He seized
the hand of the king. Cormac foresaw his death ;
the rage of his eyes arose. « Retire, thou chief of
Atha ! Nathos comes with war. Thou art bold in
Cormac's hall, for his arm is weak.' The sword en-
tered the side of the king. He fell in the halls of
his fathers. His fair hair is in the dust. His blood
is smoking round.

« Art thou fallen in thy halls ?' said Carril. ' O
son of noble Artho ! The shield of Cuthullin was
not near — nor the spear of thy father. Mournful
are the mountains of Erin, for the chief of the peo-
ple is low ! Blest be thy soul, O Cormac ! Thou art
darkened in thy youth.'

His words came to the ears of Cairbar. He closed
-us in the midst of darkness. He feared to stretch
his sword to the bards, though his soul was dark.
Long we pined alone ! At length the noble Cath-
mor came. He heard our voice from the cave. He
turned the eye of his wrath on Cairbar.

' Brother of Cathmor,' he said, « how long wilt
thou pain my soul ? Thy heart is a rock. Thy
thoughts are dark and bloody ! But thou art the
brother of Cathmor ! and Cathmor shall shine in thy
war. But my soul is not like thine, thou feeble
hand in fight! The light of my bosom is stained
with thy deeds. Bards will not sing of my renown ;
they may say, ' Cathmor was brave, but he fought
for gloomy Cairbar.' They will pass over my tomb
in silence. My fame shall not be heard. Cairbar !
loose the bards. ' They are the sons of future times.
Their voice shall be heard in other years ; after the
kings of Temora have failed. We came forth at the
words of thy chief. We saw him in his strength.
He was like thy youth, O Fingal ! wheri thou first
didst lift the spear. His face was like the plain of
the sun, when it is bright. No darkness travelled
over his brow. But he came with his thousands to
aid the red-haired Cairbar. Now he comes to re-
venge his death, O king of woody Morven !'

TEMORA. 579

• Let Cathmor come,' replied the king : ' I love
a foe so great. His soul is bright. His arm is
strong. His battles are full of fame. But the little
soul is a vapour that hovers round the marshy lake.
It never rises on the green hill, lest the winds
should meet it there. Its dwelling is in the cave:
it sends forth the dart of death ! Our young heroes,
O warriors! are like the renown of ourfathers. They
fight in youth. They fall. Their names are in song.
Fingal is amid his darkening years. He must not
fall, as an aged oak, across a secret stream. Near
it are the steps of the hunter, as it lies beneath the
wind. ' How has that tree fallen ?' he says, and,
whistling, strides along. Raise the song of joy, ye
bards of Morven ! Let our souls forget the past.
The red stars look on us from clouds, and silently
descend. Soon shall the gray beam of the morning
rise, and show us the foes of Cormac. Fillan ! my
son, take thou the spear of the king. Go to Mora's
dark-brown side. Let thine eyes travel over the
heath. Observe the foes of Fingal : observe the
course of generous Cathmor. I hear a distant sound,
like falling rocks in the desert. But strike thou thy
shield, at times, that they may not come through
night, and the fame of Morven cease. I begin to be
alone, my son. 1 dread the fall of my renown !'

The voice of bards arose. The king leaned on the
shield of Trenmor. Sleep descended on his eyes.
His future battles arose in his dreams. The host
are sleeping around. Dark-haired Fillan observes
the foe. His steps are on the distant hill. We hear,
at times, his clanging shield.

TEMORA.

BOOK II.

[This book opens, we may suppose, about midnight,
with a soliloquy of Ossian, who had retired from
the rest of the army, to mourn for his son Oscar.
Upon hearing the noise of Cathmor's army ap-
proaching, he went to find out his brother Fillan,
who kept the watch on the hill of Mora, in the
front of Fingal's army. In the conversation of
the brothers, the episode of Conar, the son of
Trenmor, who was the first king of Ireland, is in-
troduced, which lays open the origin of the con-
tests between the Cael and the Fir-bolg, the two
nations who first possessed themselves of that
island. Ossian kindles a fire on Mora; upon
which Cathmor desisted from the design he had
formed of surprising the army of the Caledonians.
He calls a council of his chiefs; reprimands Fol-
dath for advising a night attack, as the Irish were
so much superior in number to the enemy. The
bard Fonar introduces the story of Crothar, the
ancestor of the king, which throws further light
on the history of Ireland, and the original preten-
sions of the family of Atha to the throne of that
kingdom. The Irish chiefs lie down to rest, and
Cathmor himself undertakes the watch. In his cir-
cuit round the army, he is met by Ossian. The
interview of the two heroes is described. Cath-
mor obtains a promise from Ossian, to order a fu-
neral elegy to be sung over the grave of Cairbar;
it being the opinion of the times, that the souls of
the dead could not be happy, till their elegies were
sung by a bard. Morning comes. Cathmorand
Ossian part ; and the latter, casually meeting with
Carril the son of Kinfena, sends that bard, with
a funeral song, to the tomb of Cairbar.]

FATHER of heroes ! O Trenmor ! High dweller
of eddying winds ! where the dark-red thunder

TEMORA. 381

marks the troubled clouds ! Open thou thy stormy
halls. Let the bards of old be near. Let them draw
near with songs and their half-viewless harps. No
dweller of misty valley comes ! No hunter unknown
at his streams ! It is the car-borne Oscar, from the
field of war. Sudden is thy change, my son, from
what thou wert on dark Moi-lena ! The blast folds
thee in its skirt, and rustles through the sky ! Dost
thou not behold thy father, at the stream of night ?
The chiefs of Morven sleep far distant. They have
lost no son ! But ye have lost a hero, chiefs of re-
sounding Morven ! Who could equal his strength,
when battle rolled against his side, like the darkness
of crowded waters ! Why this cloud on Ossian's
soul ? It ought to burn in danger. Erin is near
with her host. The king of Selma is alone. Alone
thou shalt not be, my father, while I can lift the
spear !

I rose, in all my arms. I rose and listened to the
wind. The shield of Fillan is not heard. I tremble
for the son of Fingal. « Why should the foe come by
night? Why should the dark-haired warrior fail ?'
Distant, sullen murmurs rise; like the noise of the
lake of Lego, when its waters shrink, in the days of
frost, and all its bursting ice resounds. The people
of Lara look to heaven, and foresee the storm ! My
steps are forward en the heath. The spear of Oscar
is in my hand ! Red stars looked from high. I
gleamed along the night.

I saw Fil Ian silent before me, bendingforward from
Mora's rock. He heard the shout of the foe. The
joy of his soul arose. He heard my sounding tread,
and turned his lifted spear. ' Comest thou, son of
night, in peace ? Or dost thou meet my wrath '
The foes of Fingal are mine. Speak, orfearmy steel.
1 stand not in vain the shield of Morven's race.'
' Never mayst thou stand in vain, son of blue-eyed
Clatho ! Fingal begins to be alone. Darkness ga-
thers on the last of his days. Vet he has two sons
who ought to shine in war — who ought to be two
beams of light, near the steps of his departure.'

• Son of Fingal/ replied the youth, ' it is not long

382 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

since I raised the spear. Few are the marks of my
sword in war. But Fillan's soul is fire ! The chiefs
of Bolga* crowd around the shield of generous
Cathmor. Their gathering is on that heath. Shall
my steps approach their host ? I yielded to Oscar
alone in the strife of the race, on Cona !'

' Fillan, thou shalt not approach their host; nor
fall before thy fame is known. My name is heard in
song : when needful, I advance. From the skirts
of night I shall view them over all their gleaming
tribes. Why, Fillan, didst thou speak of Oscar —
Why awake my sigh ? I must forget the warrior,
till the storm is rolled away. Sadness ought not to
dwell in danger, nor the tear in the eye of war.
Our fathers forgot their fallen sons, till the noise
of arms was past. Then sorrow returned to the
tomb, and the song of bards arose. The memory of
those who fell quickly followed the departure of
war : when the tumult of battle is past, the soul in
silence melts away for the dead.

' Conar was the brother of Trathal, first of mortal
men. His battles were on every coast. A thousand
streams rolled down the blood of his foes. His fame
filled green Erin, like a pleasant gale. The nations
gathered in Ullin, and they blessed the king ; the
king of the race of their fathers, from the land of
Selma.

« The chiefs of the south were gathered, in the
darkness of their pride. In the horrid cave of
Muma they mixed their secret words. Thither often,
they said, the spirits of their fathers came; showing
their pale forms from the chinky rocks ; reminding
them of the honour of Bolga. • Why should Conar
reign,' they said, « the son of resounding Morven ?'

* The southern parts of Ireland went, for some
time, under the name of Bolga, from the Fir-bolg or
Belgasof Britain, who settled a colony there. ' Bolg'
signifies ' a quiver,' from which proceeds ' Fir-bolg,'
i. e. ' bowmen:' so called from their using bows
more than any of the neighbouring nations.

TEMORA. 383

' They came forth, like the streams of the desert,
with the roar of their hundred tribes. Conar was a
rock before them : broken they rolled on every side.
But often they returned, and the sons of Selmafell.
The king stood, among the tombs of his warriors.
He darkly bent his mournful face. His soul was
rolled into itself: and he had marked the place
where he was to fall : when Trathal came, in his
strength, his brother from cloudy Morven. Nor did
he come alone. Colgar was at his side ; Colgar the
son of the king and of white-bosomed Solin-corma.

* As Trenmor, clothed with meteors, descends
from the halls of thunder, pouring the dark storm
before him over the troubled sea : so Colgar de-
scended to battle, and wasted the echoing field.
His father rejoiced over the hero ; but an arrow
came! His tomb was raised, without a tear. The
king was to revenge his son. He lightened forward
in battle, till Bolga yielded at her streams !

' When peace returned to the land : when his
blue waves bore the king to Morven : then he remem-
bered his son, and poured the silent tear. Thrice did
the bards, at the cave of Furmono, call the soul of
Colgar. They called him to the hills of his land.
He heard them in his mist. Trathal placed his
sword in the cave, that the spirit of his son might
rejoice.'

« Colgar, son of Trathal !' said Fillan, ' thou wert
renowned in youth ! but the king hath not marked
my sword, bright-streaming on the field. I go forth
with the crowd. I return, without my fame. But
the foe approaches, Ossian ! I hear their murmur on
the heath. The sound of their steps is like thunder,
in the bosom of the ground, when the rocking hills
shake their groves, and not a blast pours from the
darkened sky !'

Ossian turned sudden on his spear. He raised the
flame of an oak on high. I spread it large, on Mora's
wind. Cathmor stopt in his course. Gleaming he
stood, like a rock, on whose sides are the wandering
blasts ; which seize its echoing streams, and clothe
them over with ice. So stood the friend of strangers !

384 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

The winds lift his heavy locks. Thou art the tallest

of the race of Erin, king of streamy Atha !

• First of bards,' said Cathmor, « Fonar, call the
chiefs of Erin. Call red-haired Cormar : dark-
browed Malthos : the sidelong-looking gloom of
Maronnan. Let the pride of Foldath appear — the
red-rolling eye of Turlotho. Nor let Hidalla be for-
got ; his voice, in danger, is the sound of a shower,
when it falls in the blasted vale, near Atha's falling
stream. Pleasant is its sound, on the plain, whilst
broken thunder travels over the sky !'

They came in their clanging arms. They bent for-
ward to his voice, as if a spirit of their fathers spoke
from a cloud of night. Dreadful shone they to the
light ; like the fall of the stream of Brumo,* when
the meteor lights it, before the nightly stranger.
Shuddering he stops in his journey, and looks up
for the beam of the morn !

' Why delights Foldath,' said the king, ' to pour
the blood of foes by night ? Fails his arm in battle,
in the beams of day ? Few are the foes before us ;
why should we clothe us in shades ? The valiant de-
light to shine in the battles of their land ! Thy
counsel was in vain, chief of Moma ! The eyes of
Morven do not sleep. They are watchful, as eagles^
on their mossy rocks. Let each collect, beneath his
cloud, the strength of his roaring tribe. To-morrow
I move, in light, to meet the foes of Bolga ! Mighty
was he that is low, the race of Borbar-duthul !'

« Not unmarked,' said Foldath, « were my steps
before thy race. In light, I met the foes of Cairbar.
The warrior praised my deeds. But his stone was
raised without a tear ! No bard sung over Erin's
king. Shall his foes rejoice along their mossy hills ?
No ; they must not rejoice ! He was the friend of
Foldath ! Our words were mixed, in secret, in Mo- .
ma's silent cave ; whilst thou, a boy in the field,

* Brumo was a place of worship (Fing. b. 6.) in
Craca, which is supposed to be one of the isles of
Shetland.

TEMOR.V. 385

pursuedst the thistle's beard. With Moma's sons I
shall rush abroad, and find the foe on his dusky
hills. Fingal shall lie, without his song, the gray-
haired king of Selrna.'

« Dost thou think, thou feeble man,' replied Cath-
mor, half-enraged : ' Dost thou think Fingal can
fall, without his fame, in Erin ? Could the bards be
silent at the tomb of Selma's king, the song would
burst in secret ! the spirit of the king would rejoice !
It is when thou shalt fall, that the bard shall forget
the song. Thou art dark, chief of Moma, though
thine arm is a tempest in war. Do I forget the king
of Erin, in his narrow house ? My soul is not lost to
Cairbar, the brother of my love ! I marked the bright
beams of joy, which travelled over his cloudy mind,
when I returned, with fame, to Atha of the streams.'
Tall they removed, beneath the words of the king.
Each to his own dark tribe ; where, humming, they
rolled on the heath, faint-glittering to the stars:
like waves in a rocky bay, before the nightly wind.
Beneath an oak lay the chief of Atha. His shield,
a dusky round, hung high. Near him, against a rock,
leaned the fair stranger * of Inis-huna : that beam
of light, with wandering locks, from Lumonof the
roes. At distance rose the voice of Fonar, with the
deeds of the days of old. The song fails, at times,
in Lubar's growing roar !

' Crothar,' begun the bard, ' first dwelt at Atha's
mossy stream ! A thousand oaks, from the moun-
tains, formed his echoing hall. The gathering of the
people was there, around the feast of the blue-eyed
king. But who, among his chiefs, was like the stately
Crothar? Warriors kindled in his presence. The
young sigh of the virgins rose. In Alnecma f was
the warrior honoured : the first of the race of

Bolga.

* By ' the stranger of Inis-huna,' is meant Sul-
malla.— B. 4.

t Alnecma, or Alnecmacht, was the ancient name
of Connaught. Ullin is still the Irish name of the
province of Ulster.

386 THE POEMS OF OSSIAX.

* He pursued the chase in Ullin, on the moss-
covered top of Drumardo. From the wood looked
the daughter of Cathmin, the blue-rolling eye of
Con-làma. Her sigh rose in secret. She bent her
head, amidst her wandering locks. The moon looked
in at night, and saw the white tossing of her arms ;
for she thought of the mighty Crothar, in the season
of dreams.

' Three days feasted Crothar with Cathmin. On
the fourth they awaked the hinds. Con-lama moved
to the chase with all her lovely steps. She met
Crothar in the narrow path. The bow fell at once
from her hand. She turned her face away, and half-
hid it with her locks. The love of Crothar rose. He
brought the white-bosomed maid to Atha. Bards
raised the song in her presence. Joy dwelt round
the daughter of Cathmin.

' The pride of Turloch rose, a youth who loved
the white-handed Con-làma. He came, with battle,
to Alnecma — to Atha of the roes. Cormul went
forth to the strife, the brother of car-borne Crothar.
He went forth, but he fell. The sigh of his people
rose. Silent and tall, across the stream, came the
darkening strength of Crothar: he rolled the foe
from Alnecma. He returned, amidst the joy of
Con-làma.

' Battle on battle comes. Blood is poured on
blood. The tombs of the valiant rise. Erin's clouds
are hung round with ghosts. The chiefs of the
south gathered round the echoing shield of Cro-
thar. He came with death to the paths of the foe.
The virgins wept, by the streams of Ullin. They
looked to the mist of the hill : no hunter descended
from its folds. Silence darkened in the land.
Blasts sighed lonely on grassy tombs.

' Descending like the eagle of heaven, with all
his rustling winds, when he forsakes the blast, w
joy, the son of Trenmor came; Conar, arm of
death, from Morven of the groves. He poured his
might along green Erin. Death dimly strode be-
hind his sword. The sons of Bolga tied from his I
course, as from a stream, that, bursting from the j

TEMORA. 31Ì7

stormy desert, rolls, the fields together, with all
their echoing woods. Crothar met him in battle :
but Alnecma's warriors fled. The king of Ath.i
slowly retired, in the grief of his soul. He after-
wards shone in the south; but dim as the sun of
autumn, when he visits, in his robes of mist, Lara
of dark streams. The withered grass is covered
with dew: the field, though bright, is sad.'

• Why wakes the bard before me,' said Cathmor,
' the memory of those who fled ? Has some ghost,
from his dusky cloud, bent forward to thine ear, to
frighten Cathmor from the field, with the tales of
old? Dwellers of the skirts of night, your voice
is but a blast to me : which takes the gray thistle's
head, and strews its beard on streams. Within
my bosom is a voice. Others hear it not. His
soul forbids the king of Erin to shrink back from
war.'

Abashed the bard sinks back in night : retired he
bends above a stream. His thoughts are on the days
of Atha, when Cathmor heard his song with joy.
His tears come rolling down. The winds are in his
beard. Erin sleeps around. No sleep comes down
on Cathmor's eyes. Dark, in his soul, he saw the
spirit of low-laid Cairbar. He saw him, without his
song, rolled in a blast of night. He rose. His steps
were round the host. He struck, at times, his
echoing shield. The sound reached Ossian's ear on
Mora's mossy brow.

' Fillan,' I said, • the foes advance. I hear the
shield of war. Stand thou in the narrow path.
Ossian shall mark their course. If over my fall the
host should pour, then be thy buckler heard.
Awake the king on his heath, lest his fame should
fly away.' I strode in all my rattling arms; wide-
bounding over a stream that darkly-winded in the
field, before the king of Atha. Green Atha's king,
with lifted spear, came forward on my course.
Now would we have mixed in horrid fray, like two
contending ghosts, that bending forward, from two
clouds, send forth the roaring winds ; did not Os-
sian behold, on high, the helmet of Erin's kings.

388 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

The eagle's wing spread above it, rustling in the
breeze. A red star looked through the plumes. I
stopt the lifted spear.

' The helmet of kings is before me ! Who art
thou, son of night ? Shall Ossian's spear be re-
nowned, when thou art lowly laid ?' At once he
dropt the gleaming lance. Growing before me
seemed the form. He stretched his hand in night.
He spoke the words of kings.

' Friend of the spirits of heroes, do I meet thee
thus in shades ? I have wished for thy stately steps
in Ath.i, in the days of joy. Why should my spear
now arise? The sun must behold us, Ossian, when
we bend, gleaming, in the strife. Future warriors
shall mark the place, and shuddering think of other
years. They shall mark it, like the haunt of ghosts,
pleasant and dreadful to the soul.'

♦ Shall it then be forgot,' I said, ' where we meet
in peace? Is the remembrance of battles always
pleasant to the soul? Do not we behold, with joy,
the place where our fathers feasted ? But our eyes
are full of tears, on the fields of their war. This
stone shall rise, with all its moss, and speak to other
years. ' Here Cathmor and Ossian met : the warriors
met in peace !' When thou, O stone, shalt fail ;
when Lubar's stream shall roll away ; then shall
the traveller come, and bend here, perhaps, in rest.
When the darkened moon is rolled over his head,
our shadowy forms may come, and, mixing with his
dreams, remind him of his place. But why turnest
thou so dark away, son of Borbar-duthul?'

* Not forgot, son of Fingal, shall we ascend these
winds. Our deeds are streams of light, before the
eyes of bards. But darkness is rolled on Atha:
the king is low, without his song: still there wras a
beam towards Cathmor, from his stormy soul; like
the moon in a cloud, amidst the dark-red course of
thunder.'

' Son of Erin,' I replied, ' my wrath dwells not
in his earth. My hatred flies, on eagle wings, from
the foe that is low. He shall bear the song of I
bards. Cairbar shall rejoice on his winds.'

TEMORA. 389

lathmor's swelling soul arose. He took the dag-
ger from his side, and placed it gleaming in my
hand. He placed it in my hand with sighs, and
silent strode away. Mine eyes followed his de-
parture. He dimly gleamed, like the form of a
ghost, which meets a traveller by night, on the dark-
skirted heath. His words are dark, like songs of
old: with morning strides the unfinished shade
away!

Who comes from Luhar's vale ? from the skirts of
the morning mist ? The drops of heaven are on his
head. His steps are in the paths of the sad. It is
Carril of other times. He comes from Tura's silent
cave. I behold it dark in the rock, through the
thin folds of mist. There, perhaps, Cuthullin sits,
on the blast which bends its trees. Pleasant is the
song of the morning from the bard of Erin.

• The waves crowd away,' said Carril. ' They
crowd away for fear. They hear the sound of thy
coming forth, O sun ! Terrible is thy beauty, son
of heaven, when death is descending on thy locks:
when thou rollest thy vapours before thee, over the
blasted host. But pleasant is thy beam to the
hunter, sitting by the rock in a storm, when thou
showest thyself from the parted cloud, and bright-
enest his dewy locks : he looks down on the streamy
vale, and beholds the descent of roes ! How long
shalt thou rise in war, and roll, a bloody shield,
through heaven ? I see the death of heroes, dark
wandering over thy face !'

• Why wander the words of Carril ?' I said.
' Does the son of heaven mourn ? He is unstained
in his course, ever rejoicing in his fire. Roll on,
thou careless light. Thou too, perhaps, must fall.
Thy darkening hour may seize thee, struggling as
thou rollest through thy sky. But pleasant is the
voice of the bard : pleasant to Ossian's soul ! It is
like the shower of the morning, when it comes
through the rustling vale, on which the sun looks
through mist, just rising from his rocks. But this
is no time, O bard ! to sit down, at the strife of
song. Fingal is in arms on the vale. Thou seest

390 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

the flaming shield of the king. His face darkens be-
tween his locks. He beholds the wide rolling of
Erin. Does not Carril behold that tomb, beside the
roaring stream ? Three stones lift their gray heads,
beneath a bending oak. A king is lowly laid ! Give
thou his soul to the wind. He is the brother of
Cathmor ! Open his airy hall ! Let thy song be a
stream of joy to Cairbar's darkened ghost '.'

T EM OR A.

BOOK III.

[Horning coming on, Fingal, after a speech to his
people, devolves the command on Gaul, the son
of Morni ; it being the custom of the times, that
the king should not engage, till the necessity of
affairs required his superior valour and conduct.
The king and Ossian retire to the rock of Cormul,
which overlooked the field of battle. The bards
sing the war-song. The general conflict is de-
scribed. Gaul, the son of Morni, distinguishes
himself; kills Tur-lathon, chief of Moruth, and
other chiefs of lesser name. On the other hand,
Foldath, who commanded the Irish army (for
Cathmor, after the example of Fingal, kept him-
self from battle), fights gallantly ; kills Connal,
chief of Dun-lora, and advances to engage Gaul
himself. Gaul, in the mean time, being wounded
in the hand, by a random arrow, is covered by
Fillan, the son of Fingal, who performs prodigies
of valour. Night comes on. The horn of Fin-
gal recalls his army. The bards meet them with
a congratulatory song, in which the praises of
Gaul and Fillan are particularly celebrated. The
chiefs sit down at a feast; Fingal misses Connal.
The episode of Connal and Duth-caron is intro-
duced ; which throws further light on the ancient
history of Ireland. Carril is despatched to raise
the tomb of Connal. The action of this book
takes up the second day from the opening of the
poem.]

« WHO is that at blue-streaming Lubar ? Who,
by the bending hill of roes ? Tall, he leans on
an oak torn from high, by nightly winds. Who
but Comhal's son, brightening in the last of his
fields. His gray hair is on the breeze. He half-

392 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

unsheaths the sword of Luno. His eyes are turned
to Moi-leua, to the dark moving of foes. Dost thou
hear the voice of the king ? It is like the bursting
of a stream in the desert, when it comes, between
its echoing rocks, to the blasted field of the sun !

• Wide-skirted comes down the foe ! Sons of
woody Selma, arise ! Be ye like the rocks of our
land, on whose brown sides are the rolling of
streams. A beam of joy comes on my soul. I see
the foe mighty before me. It is when he is feeble,
that the sighs of Fingal are heard : lest death
should come without renown, and darkness dwell
on his tomb. Who shall lead the war, against the
host of Alnecma ? It is only when danger grows,
that my sword shall shine. Such was the cus-
tom, heretofore, of Trenmor, the ruler of winds !
and thus descended to battle the blue-shielded
Trathal !'

The chiefs bend toward the king. Each darkly
seems to claim the war. Thy tell, by halves, their
mighty deeds. They turn their eyes on Erin. But
far before the rest the son of Morni stands. Silent
he stands, for who had not heard of the battles of
Gaul ? They rose within his soul. His hand, in
secret, seized the sword — the sword which he
brought from Strumon, when the strength of Morni
failed. On his spear leans Fillan of Selma, in the
wandering of his locks. Thrice he raises his eyes
to Fingal: his voice thrice fails him as he speaks.
My brother could not boast of battles : at once he
strides away. Bent over a distant stream he stands :
the tear hangs in his eye. He strikes, at times, the
thistle's head, with his inverted spear. Nor is he
unseen of Fingal. Side-long he beholds his son.
He beholds him, with bursting joy ; and turns,
amid his crowded soul. In silence turns the king
towards Mora of woods. He hides the big tear with
his locks. At length his voice is heard.

« First of the sons of Morni ! Thou rock that
defiest the storm ! Lead thou my battle, for the
race of low-laid Cormae. No boy's staff is thy
spear : no harmless beam of light thy sword. Son
of Morni of steeds, behold the foe ! Destroy ! Fil-

TEMORA. S3

"an. observe the chief! He is not calm in strife:
nor burns he, heedless, in battle. My son, observe
the chief! He is strong as Lubar's stream, but ne-
ver foams and roars. High on cloudy Mora, Fingal
Shall behold the war. Stand, Ossian, near thy fa-
ther, by the falling stream. Raise the voice, O
bards ! Sehna, move beneath the sound. It is my
latter field: clothe it over with light.'

As the sudden rising of winds ; or distant rolliug
of troubled seas, when some dark ghost, in wrath,
heaves the billows over an isle — an isle, the seat of
mist on the deep, for many dark-brown years ! — so
terrible is the sound of the host, wide-moving over
the field. Gaul is tall before them. The streams
glitter within his strides. The bards raise the song
by his side. He strikes his shield between. On the
skirts of the blast, the tuneful voices rise.

* On Crona,' said the bards, ' there bursts a
stream by night. It swells in its own dark course,
till morning's early beam. Then comes it white
from the hill, with the rocks and their hundred
groves. Far be my steps from Crona. Death is
tumbling there. Be ye a stream from Mora, sons
of cloudy Morven !

' Who rises, from his car, on Clutha ? The hills
are troubled before the king ! The dark woods
echo round, and lighten at his steel. See him
amidst the foe, like Colgach's sportful ghost :
when he scatters the clouds, and rides the eddying
winds .' It is Morni of bounding steeds ! Be like
thy father, O Gaul !

« Selma is opened wide. Bards take the trembling
harps. Ten youths bear the oak of the feast. A
distant sunbeam marks the hill. The dusky waves
of the blast fly over the fields of grass. >Vhy art
thou silent, O Selma ? The king returns with all
his fame. Did not the battle roar ? yet peaceful is
his brow ! It roared, and Fingal overcame. Be like
thy father, O Fillan !'

They move beneath the song. High wave their
arms, as rushy fields, beneath autumnal winds. On
Mora stands the king in arms. Mist flies round his
buckler abroad; as, aloft, it hung on a bough, on

394 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Cormul's mossy rock. In silence I stood by Fingal,
and turned my eyes on Cromla's wood : lest I should
behold the host, and rush amid my swelling soul.
My foot is forward on the heath. I glittered, tall,
in steel: like the falling stream of Tromo, which
nightly winds bind over with ice. The boy sees it,
on high, gleaming to the early beam : toward it he
turns his ear, and wonders why it is so silent !

Nor bent over a stream is Cathmor, like a youth
in a peaceful field. Wide he drew forward the war,
a dark and troubled wave. But when he beheld
Fingal on Mora, his generous pride arose. ' Shall
the chief of Atha fight, and no king in the field?
Foldath, lead my people forth. Thou art a beam
of fire.'

Forth issues Foldath of Moma, like a cloud, the
robe of ghosts. He drew his sword, a flame, from
his side. He bade the battle move. The tribes,
like ridgy waves, dark pour their strength around.
Haughty is his stride before them. His red eye
rolls in wrath. He calls Cormul chief of Dun-
ratho ; and his words were heard.

' Cormul, thou beholdest that path. It winds
green behind the foe. Place thy people there ; lest
Selma should escape from my sword. Bards of
green-valleyed Erin, let no voice of yours arise.
The sons of Morven must fall without song. They
are the foes of Cairbar. Hereafter shall the tra-
veller meet their dark, thick mist on Lena, where
it wanders with their ghosts, beside the reedy lake.
Never shall they rise, without song, to the dwell-
ing of winds.'

Cormul darkened, as he went. Behind him
rushed his tribe. They sunk beyond the rock.
Gaul spoke to Fillan of Selma, as his eye pursued
the course of the dark-eyed chief of Dun-ratho.
' Thou beholdest the steps of Cormul ! Let thine
arm be strong ! When he is low, son of Fingal,
remember Gaul in war. Here I fall forward into
battle, amid the ridge of shields.'

The sign of death ascends — the dreadful sound
of Morni's shield. Gaul pours his voice between.
Fingal rises on Mora. He saw them, from wing

TEMORA. 395

to wing, bending at once in strife. Gleaming on
his own dark hill, stood Cathmor of streamy Atha.
The kings were like two spirits of heaven, stand-
ing each on his gloomy cloud; when they pour
abroad the winds, and lift the roaring seas. The
blue tumbling of waves is before them, marked
with the paths of whales. They themselves are
calm and bright. The gale lifts slowly their locks
of mist !

What beam of light hangs high in air ? "What
beam but Morni's dreadful sword ? Death is
strewed on thy paths, O Gaul ! Thou foldest them
together in thy rage. Like a young oak falls Tur-
lathon, with his branches round him. His high-
bosomed spouse stretches her white arms, in dreams,
to the returning chief, as she sleeps by gurgling
Moruth, in her disordered locks. It is his ghost,
Oichoma. The chief is lowly laid. Hearken not
to the winds for Tur-lathon's echoing shield. It is
pierced, by his streams. Its sound is passed away.

Not peaceful is the hand of Foldath. He winds
his course in blood. Connal met him in fight.
They mixed their clanging steel. Why should mine
eyes behold them? Connal, thy locks are gray!
Thou wert the friend of strangers, at the moss-co-
vered rock of Dun-lora. When the skies were rolled
together, then thy feast was spread. The stranger
heard the winds without ; and rejoiced at thy burn-
ing oak. Why, son of Duth-caron, art thou laid in
blood ? The blasted tree bends above thee. Thy
shield lies broken near. Thy blood mixes with the
stream, thou breaker of the shields !

Ossian took the spear, in his wrath. But Gaul
rushed forward on Foldath. The feeble pass by
his side :' his rage is turned on Moma's chief. Now
they had raised their deathful spears : unseen an
arrow came. It pierced the hand of Gaul. His
steel fell sounding to earth. Young Fillan came,
with Cormul's shield ! He stretched it large before
the chief. Foldath sent his shouts abroad, and
kindled all the field : as a blast that lifts the wide-
winged flame over Lumon's echoing groves.

« Son of blue-eyed Clatho,' said Gaul, ' O Fillan J

396 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

thou art a beam from heaven ; that, coming on the
troubled deep, binds up the tempest's wing. Cor-
mul is fallen before thee. Early art thou in the
fame of thy fathers. Rush not too far, my hero.
I cannot lift the spear to aid. I stand harmless in
battle : but my voice shall be poured abroad. The
sons of Selma shall hear, and remember my former
deeds.'

His terrible voice rose on the wind. The host
bends forward in fight. Often had they heard him,
at Strumon, when he called them to the chase of
the hinds. He stands tall, amid the war, as an
oak in the skirts of a storm, which now is clothed
on high, in mist : then shows its broad, waving
head. The musing hunter lifts his eye, from his
own rushy field !

My soul pursues thee, O Fillan ! through the
path of thy fame. Thou rollest the foe before thee.
Now Foldath, perhaps, may fly: but night comes
down with its clouds. Cathmor's horn is heard on
high. The sons of Selma hear the voice of Fingal,
from Mora's gathered mist. The bards pour their
song, like dew, on the returning war.

• Who comes from Strumon,' they said, ' amid
her wandering locks ? She is mournful in her
steps, and lifts her blue eyes towards Erin. Why
art thou sad, Evir-choma? Who is like thy chief
in renown ? He descended dreadful to battle ; he
returns, like a light from a cloud. He raised the
sword in wrath : they shrunk before blue-shielded
Gaul !

« Joy, like the rustling gale, comes on the soul
of the king. He remembers the battles of old; the
days wherein his fathers fought. The days of old
return on Fingal's mind, as he beholds the renown
of his son. As the sun rejoices, from his cloud,
over the tree his beams have raised, as it shakes its
lonely head on the heath; so joyful is the king over
Fillan !

« As the rolling of thunder on hills, when Lara's
fields are still and dark, such are the steps of Selma,
pleasant and dreadful to the ear. They return with
their sound, like eagles to their dark-browed rock,

TEMORA. 397

after the prey is torn on the field, the dun sons of
the bounding hind. Your fathers rejoice from their
clouds, sons of streamy Selma !'

Such was the nightly voice of bards, on Mora of
the hinds. A flame rose, from an hundred oaks,
which winds had torn from Cormul's steep. The
feast is spread in the midst : around sat the gleam-
ing chiefs. Fiijgal is there in his strength. The
eagle-wing of his helmet sounds. The rustling
blasts of the west unequal rush through night.
Long looks the king in silence round : at length his
words are heard.

' My soul feels a want in our joy. I behold a
breach among my friends. The head of one tree is
low. The squally wind pours in on Selma. Where
is the chief of Dun-lora ? Ought Connal to be for-
got at the feast ? When did he forget the stranger,
in the midst of his echoing hall ? Ye are silent in
my presence ! Connal is then no more. Joy meet
thee, O warrior ! like a stream of light. Swift be
thy course to thy fathers, along the roaring winds !
Ossian, thy soul is fire: kindle the memory of the
king. Awake the battles of Connal, when first he
shone in war. The locks of Connal were gray. His
days of youth were mixed with mine. In one day
Duth-caron first strung our bows, against the roes
of Dun-lora.'

' Many,' I said, ' are our paths to battle in green-
valleyed Erin. Often did our sails arise, over the blue
tumbling waves; when we came, in other days, to
aid the race of Conar. The strife roared once in
Alnecma, at the foam-covered streams of Duth-
ula. With Cormac descended to battle Duth-caron,
from cloudy Selma. Nor descended Duth-caron
alone; his son was by his side, the long-haired
youth of Connal lifting the first of his spears.
Thou didst command them, O Fingal ! to aid the
king of Erin.

■ Like the bursting strength of ocean, the sons
of Bolga rushed to war. Colc-ulla was before them,
the chief of blue-streaming Atha. The battle was
mixed on the plain. Cormac shone in his own
strife, bright as the forms of his fathers. But, far

598 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

before the rest, Duth-caron hewed down the foe.
Nor slept the arm of Connal by his father's side.
Cole-ulla prevailed on the plain: like scattered
mist fled the people of Cormac.

' Then rose the sword of Cuth-caron, and the
steel of broad-shielded Connal. They shaded their
flying friends, like two rocks with their heads of
pine. Night came down on Duth-uia: silent strode
the chiefs over the field. A mountain-stream
roared across the path, nor could Duth-caron bound
over its course.' ' Why stands my father?' said
Connal, • I hear the rushing foe.'

• ' Fly, Connal,' he said. « Thy father's strength
begins to fail. I come wounded from battle. Here
let me rest in night.' « But thou shalt not remain
alone,' said Connal's bursting sigh. ' My shield is
an eagle's wing to cover the king of Dun-lora. He
bends dark above his father. The mighty Duth-
caron dies.

* Day rose, and night returned. No lonely bard
appeared, deep musing on the heath : and could
Connal leave the tomb of his father, till he should
receive his fame? He bent the bow against the
roes of Duth-ula. He spread the lonely feast.
Seven nights he laid his head on the tomb, and
saw his father in his dreams. He saw him rolled,
dark in a blast, like the vapour of reedy Lego. At
length the steps of Colgan came, the bard of high
Temora. Duth-caron received his fame, and
brightened, as he rose on the wind.'

♦ Pleasant to the ear,' said Fingal, ' is the praise
of the kings of men ; when their bows are strong
in battle; when they soften at the sight of the sad.
Thus let my name be renowned, when the bards
shall lighten my rising soul. Carril, son of Kin-
fena! take the bards, and raise a tomb. To-night
let Connal dwell within his narrow house. Let not
the soul of the valiant wander on the winds. Faint
glimmers the moon on Moi-lena, through the
broad-headed groves of the hill ! Raise stones, be-
neath its beam, to all the fallen in war. Though
no chiefs were they, yet their hands were strong in
fight. They were my rock in danger ; the moun-

TEMORA. 899

tain from which I spread my eagle wings. Thence
am 1 renowned. Carril, forget not the low !'

Loud, at once, from the hundred bards, rose the
song of the tomb. Carril strode before them ; they
are the murmur of streams behind his steps. Si-
lence dwells in the vales of Moi-lena, where each,
with its own dark rill, is winding between the hills.
I heard the voice of the bards, lessening, as they
moved along. I leaned forward from my shield ;
and felt the kindling of my soul. Half-formed, the
words of my song burst forth upon the wind. So
hears a tree, on the vale, the voice of spring
around. It pours its green leaves to the sun. It
shakes its lonely head. The hum of the mountain
bee is near it ; the hunter sees it with joy, from the
blasted heath.

Young Fillan at a distance stood. His helmet
lay glittering on the ground. His dark hair is loose
to the blast. A beam of light is Clatho's son ! He
heard the words of the king, with joy. He leaned
forward on his spear.

■ My son,' said car-borne Fingal, ' I raw thy
deeds, and my soul was glad. The fame of our fa-
thers, I said, bursts from its gathering cloud.
Thou art brave, son of Clatho ! but headlong in
the strife. So did not Fingal advance, though he ne-
ver feared a foe. Let thy people be a ridge behind.
They are thy strength in the field. Then shalt
thou be long renowned, and behold the tombs of
the old. The memory of the past returns, my
deeds in other years : when first I descended from
ocean on the green-valleyed isle.'

We bend towards the voice of the king. The
moon looks abroad from her cloud. The gray-
skirted mist is near — the dwelling of the ghosts !

TEMORA.

[The second night continues. Fingal relates, at the
feast, his own first expedition into Ireland, and
his marriage with Kos-erana, the daughter of
CoimaCi king of that island. The Irish chiefs
convene in the presence of Cathmor. The situa-
tion of the king described. The story of Sul-
malla, the daughter of Conmor, king of Inis-
huna, who, in the disguise of a young warrior,
had followed Cathmor to the war. The sullen
behaviour of Foldath, who had commanded in
the battle of the preceding day, renews the dif-
ference between him and Malthos ; but Cathmor,
interposing, ends it. The chiefs feast* and hear
the song of Fonar the bard. Cathmor retires to
rest, at a distance from the army. The ghost
of his brother Cairbar appears to him in a dream,
and obscurely foretells the issue of the war.
The soliloquy of the king. He discovers Sul-
nialla. Morning conies. Her soliloquy closes
the book.]

♦ BENEATH an oak,' said the king, ' I sat on
Selma's streamy rock, when Connal rose, from the
sea, with the broken spear of Duth-earon. Far
distant stood the youth, lie turned away his eyes.
He remembered the steps of his father, on his own
green hills. I darkened in my place. Dusky
thoughts flew over my soul. The kings of Erin
rose before me. I half-unsheathed the sword.
Slowly approached the chiefs. They lifted up their
Mlent eyes. Like a ridge of clouds, they wait for
the bursting forth of my voice. My voice was, to
'hem. a wind from heaven, to roll the mist away.
' I bade my white sails to rise, before the roar

TEMORA. 401

of Coua's wind. Three hundred youths looked,
from their waves, on Fingal's bossy shield. High
on the mast it hung, and marked the dark-blue sea.
But when night came down, I struck, at times, the
warning boss : I struck, and looked on high, for
fiery-haired Ul-erin •• Nor absent was the star of
heaven. It travelled red between the clouds. I
pursued the lovely beam, on the faint-gleaming
deep. With morning, Erin rose in mist. We came
into the bay of Moi-lena, where its blue waters
tumbled, in the bosom of echoing woods. Here
Cormac, in his secret hall, avoids the strength of
Colc-ulla. Nor he alone avoids the foe. The blue
eye of Ros-crana is there— Ros-erana, white-
handed maid, the daughter of the king I

' Gray on his pointless spear came forth the
aged steps of Cormac. He smiled, from his waving
locks ; but grief was in his soul. He saw us few be-
fore him, and his sigh arose. ' I see the arms of
Trenmor,' he said ; • and these are the steps of the
king ! Fingal ! thou art a beam of light to Cormac's
darkened soul. Early is thy fame, my son : but
strong are the foes of Erin. They are like the roar
of streams in the land, sou of car-borne Comhal !'
• Vet they may be rolled away,' I said in my rising
soul. ' We are not of the race of the feeble, king
of blue-shielded hosts ! Why should fear come
amongst us, like a ghost of night ? The soul of the
valiant grows, when foes increase in the field. Roll
no darkness, king of Erin, on the young in war !'

• The bursting tears of the king came down. He
seized my hand in silence. * Race of the daring
Trenmor !' at length he said, ' I roll no cloud before
thee. Thou burnest in the fire of thy fathers. I
behold thy fame. It marks thy course in battle,
like a stream of light. But wait the coming of
Cairbar ; my son must join thy sword. He calls
the sons of Erin from all their distant streams.'

' We came to the hall of the king, where it rose
in the midst of rocks, on whose dark sides were the

* Ul-erin, « the guide to Ireland/ a star known
by that name in the days of Fingal.

402 THE POEMS OF OSSIAX.

marks of streams of old. Broad oaks bend around
with their moss. The thick birch is waving near.
Half-hid, in her shady grove, Roscrana raises the
song. Her white hands move on the harp. I be-
held her blue rolling eyes. She was like a spirit of
heaven half-folded in the skirt of a cloud !

• Three clays we feasted at Moi-lena. She rises
bright in my troubled soul. Cormac beheld me
dark. He gave the white-bosomed maid. She
comes with bending eye, amid the wandering of her
heavy locks. She came ! Straight the battle roared.
Colc-ulla appeared: I took my spear. My sword
rose, with my people, against the ridgy foe. Al-
necma fled. Colc-ulla fell. Fingal returned with
fame.

' Renowned is he, O Fillan, who fights, in the
strength of his host. The bard pursues his steps,
through the land of the foe. But he who fights
alone, few are his deeds to other times ! He shines,
to-day, a mighty light. To-morrow, he is low.
One song contains his fame. His name is on one
dark field. He is forgot ; but where his tomb sends
forth the tufted grass.'

Such are the words of Fingal, on Mora of the
roes. Three bards, from the rock of Cormul, pour
down the pleasing song. Sleep descends, in the
sound, on the broad-skirted host. Carril returned,
with the bards, from the tomb of Dun-lora's chief.
The voice of morning shall not come to the dusky
bed of Duth-caron. No more shalt thou hear the
tread of roes around thy narrow house !

As roll the troubled clouds, around a meteor of
night, when they brighten their sides with its light,
along the heaving sea: so gathers Erin round the
gleaming form of Cathmor. He, tall in the midst,
careless, lifts, at times, his spear: as swells or falls
the sound of Fonar's distant harp. Near him
leaned, against a rock, Sul-malla of blue eyes, the
white-bosomed daughter of Conmor, king of Inis-
huna. To his aid came blue-shielded Cathmor,
and rolled his foes away. Sul-malla beheld him
stately in the hall of feasts. Nor careless rolled
the eyes of Cathmor on the long-haired maid !

TEMORA. 403

The third day arose, when Fithil came, from
Erin of the streams. He told of the lifting up of
the shield in Selma : he told of the danger of Cair-
bar. Cathmor raised the sail at Cluba; but the
winds were in other lands. Three days he re-
mained on the coast, and turned his eyes on Con-
mor's halls. He remembered the daughter of
strangers, and his sigh arose. Now when the winds
awaked the wave, from the hill came a youth in
arms, to lift the sword with Cathmor, in his echo-
ing fields. It was the white-armed Sul-malla. Se-
cret she dwelt beneath her helmet. Her steps were
in the path of the king : on him her blue eyes rolled
with joy, when he lay by his rolling streams ! But
Cathmor thought, that, on Lumon, she still pur-
sued the roes. He thought, that fair on a rock
she stretched her white hand to the wind ; to feel
its course from Erin, the green dwelling of her
love. He had promised to return, with his white-
bosomed sails. The maid is near thee, O Cathmor !
leaning on her rock.

The tall forms of the chiefs stand around; all
but dark-browed Foldath. He leaned against a
distant tree, rolled into his haughty soul. His
bushy hair whistles in wind. At times, bursts the
hum of a song. He struck the tree, at length, in
wrath ; and rushed before the king ! Calm and
stately, to the beam of the oak, arose the form of
young Hidalla. His hair falls round his blushing
cheek, in wreaths of waving light. Soft was his
voice in Clonra, in the valley of his fathers. Soft
was his voice when he touched the harp, in the
hall near his roaring streams !

' King of Erin,' said Hidalla, * now is the time
to feast. Bid the voice of bards arise. Bid them
roll the night away. The soul returns, from song,
more terrible to war. Darkness settles on Erin.
From hill to hill bend the skirted clouds. Far and
gray, on the heath, the dreadful strides of ghosts
are seen— the ghosts of those who fell bend for-
ward to their song. Bid, O Cathmor ! the harps to
rise, to brighten the dead, on their wandering
blasts.'

404 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

* Be all the dead forgot,' said Foldath's bursting
wrath. « Did not I fail in the field ? Shall I then
hear the song ? Yet was not ray course harmless
in war. Blood was a stream around my steps.
But the feeble were behind me. The foe has
escaped from my sword. In Clonra's vale touch
thou the harp. Let Dura answer to the voice of
Hidalla. Let some maid look, from the wood, on
thy long, yellow locks. Fly from Lubar's echoing
plain. This is the field of heroes !'

* King of Erin,' Malthos said, ' it is thine to
lead in war. Thou art a fire to our eyes, on the
dark-brown field. Like a blast thou hast past over
hosts. Thou hast laid them low in blood. But
who has heard thy words returning from the field?
The wrathful delight in death : their remembrance
rests on the wounds of their spear. Strife is folded
in their thoughts: their words are ever heard.
Thy course, chief of Moraa, was like a troubled
stream. The dead were rolled on thy path: but
others also lift the spear. We were not feeble be-
hind thee ; but the foe was strong.'

Cathmor beheld the rising rage and bending for-
ward of either chief: for, half-unsheathed, they
held their swords, and rolled their silent eyes. Now
would they have mixed in horrid fray, had not the
wrath of Cathmor burned. He drew his sword : it
gleamed through night, to the high-flamed oak !
' Sons of pride,' said the king, • allay your swell-
ing souls. Retire in night. Why should my rage
arise ? Should I contend with both in arms ? It is
no time for strife ! Retire, ye clouds, at my feast.
Awake my soul no more !'

* They sunk from the king on either side, like
two columns of morning mist, when the sun rises,
between them, on his glittering rocks. Dark is their
rolling on either side : each toward its reedy pool !

Silent sat the chiefs at the feast. They look, at
times, on Atha's king, where he strode, on his
rock, amid his settling soul. The host lie along
the field. Sleep descends on Moi-lena. The voice
of Fonar ascends alone, beneath his distant tree.
It ascends in the praise of Cathmor, son of Lar-

thon of Lumon. But Cathmor did not hear his
praise. He lay at the roar of a stream. The rus-
tling breeze of night flew over his whistling locks.

His brother came to his dreams, half-seen from
his low-hung cloud. Joy rose darkly in his face.
He had heard the song of Carril *. A blast sus-
tained his dark-skirted cloud: which he seized in
the bosom of night, as he rose, with his fame, to-
wards his airy hall. Half-mixed with the noise of
the stream, he poured his feeble words.

' Joy meet the soul of Cathmor. His voice was
heard on Moi-lena. The bard gave his song to
Cairbar. He travels on the wind. My form is in
my father's hall, like the gliding of a terrible
light, which darts across the desert, in a stormy
night. No bard shall be wanting at thy tomb,
when thou art lowly laid. The sons of song love
the valiant. Cathmor, thy name is a pleasant gale.
The mournful sounds arise ! On Lubar's field
there is a voice ! Louder still, ye shadowy ghosts I
The dead were full of fame ! Shrilly swells the
feeble sound. The rougher blast alone is heard !
Ah ! soon is Cathmor low !' Rolled into himself
he flew, wide on the bosom of winds. The old oak
felt his departure, and shook its whistling head.
Cathmor starts from rest. He takes his deathful
spear. He lifts his eyes around. He sees but dark-
skirted night.

« It was the voice of the king,' he said. « But
now his form is gone. Unmarked is your path in
the air, ye children of the night. Often, like a
reflected beam, are ye seen in the desert wild : but
ye retire in your blasts, before our steps approach.
Go, then, ye feeble race ! Knowledge with you
there is none ! Your joys are weak, and like the
dreams of our rest, or the light-winged thought,
that flics across the soul. Shall Cathmor soon be
low ? darkly laid in his narrow house, where no
morning comes, with her half-opened eyes ? Away,
thou shade ! to fight is mine ! All further thought
away ! I rush forth on eagle's wings, to seize my

* The funeral elegv at the tomb of Cairbar.

406 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

beam of fame. In the lonely vale of streams abides
the narrow soul. Years roll on, seasons return,
but he is still unknown. In a blast comes cloudy
death, and lays his gray head low. His ghost is
folded in the vapour of the fenny field. Its course
is never on hills, nor mossy vales of wind. So shall
not Cathmor depart. No boy in the field was he,
who only marks the bed of roes, upon the echoing
hills. My issuing forth was with king ; my joy
in dreadful plains, where broken hosts are rolled
away, like seas before the wind.'

' So spoke the king of Alnecma, brightening in
his rising soul. Valour, like a pleasant flame, is
gleaming within his breast. Stately is his stride on
the heath! The beam of east is poured around.
He saw his gray host on the field, wide-spreading
their ridges in light. He rejoiced, like a spirit of
heaven, whose steps come forth on the seas, when
he beholds them peaceful round, and all the winds
are laid. But soon he awakes the waves, and rolls
them large to some echoing shore.

On the rushy bank of a stream slept the daugh-
ter of Inis-huna. The helmet had fallen from her
head. Her dreams were in the lands of her fathers.
There morning is on the field. Gray streams leap
down from the rocks. The breezes, in shadowy
waves, fly over the rushy fields. There is the
sound that prepares for the chase — there the
moving of warriors from the hall. But tall above
the rest is seen the hero of streamy Atha. He bends
his eye of love on Sul-malla, from his stately steps.
She turns, with pride, her face away, and careless
bends the bow.

Such were the dreams of the maid, when Cath-
mor of Atha came. He saw her fair face before
him, in the midst of her wandering locks. He
knew the maid of Luraon. What should Cathmor
do ? His sighs arise. His tears come down. But
.straight he turns away. ' This is no time, king of
Atha, to awake thy secret soul. The battle is rolled
before thee, like a troubled stream.'

He struck that warning boss *, wherein dwelt the

• In order to understand this passage, it is neces-

TEMORA. 407

voice of war. Erin rose around him, like the sound
of eagle-wing. Sul-malla started from sleep, in her
disordered locks. She seized the helmet from
earth. She trembled in her place. ' Why should
they know in Erin of the daughter of Inis-huna ?'
She remembered the race of kings. The pride of
her soul arose ! Her steps are behind a rock, by
the blue-winding stream of a vale ; where dwelt the
dark-brown hind ere yet the war arose. Thither
came the voice of Cathmor, at times, to Sul-
malla*s ear. Her soul is darkly sad. She pours
her words on wind.

« The dreams of Inis-huna departed. They are
dispersed from my soul. I hear not the chase in
my land. I am concealed in the skirt of war. I
look forth from my cloud. No beam appears to
light my path. I behold my warrior low ; for the
broad-shielded king is near, he that overcomes in
danger, Fingal from Selma of spears ! Spirit of de-
parted Conmor ! are thy steps on the bosom of
winds ? Comest thou, at times, to other lands,
father of sad Sul-malla ? Thou dost come ! I
have heard thy voice at night, while yet I rose on
the wave to Erin of the streams. The ghosts of
fathers, they say, call away the souls of their race,
while they behold them lonely in the midst of woe.
Call me, my father, away ! When Cathmor is low
on earth, then shall Sul-malla be lonely in the
midst of woe !'

sary to look to the description of Cathmor's shield
in the seventh book. This shield had seven prin-
cipal bosses, the sound of each of which, when
struck with a spear, conveyed a particular order
from the king to his tribes. The sound of one of
them, as here was the signal for the army to
assemble.

TEMORA.

BOOK V.

[The poet, after a short address to the harp of Cona,
describes the arrangement of both armies on either
side of the river Lubar. Fingal gives the com-
mand to Fillan ; but, at the same time, orders
Gaul, the son of Morni, who had been wounded
in the hand in the preceding battle, to assist him
with his counsel. The army of the Fir-bolg is
commanded by Foldath. The general onset is
described. The great actions of Fillan. He kills
Rothmar and Culmin. But when Fillan conquers
in one wing, Foldath presses hard on the other.
He wounds Dermid the son of Duthno, and puts
the whole wing to flight. Dermid deliberates with
himself, and, at last, resolves to put a stop to the
progress of Foldath, by engaging him in single
combat. When the two chiefs were approaching
towards one another, Fillan came suddenly to the
relief of Dermid; engaged Foldath, and killed
him. The behaviour of Malthos towards the
fallen Foldath. Fillan puts the whole army of
the Fir-bolg to flight. The book closes with an
address to Clatho, the mother of that hero.]

THOU dweller between the shields, that hang on
high in Ossian's hall! descend from thy place,
O harp, and let me hear thy voice ! Son of Alpin,
strike the string. Thou must awake the soul of the
bard. The murmur of Lora's stream has rolled the
tale away. I stand in the cloud of years. Few are
its openings toward the past; and when the vision
comes, it is but dim and dark. I hear thee, harp of
Selma ! my soul returns, like a breeze, which the
sun brings back to the vale, where dwelt the lazy
mist!

Lubar is bright before me in the windings of its
vale. On either side, on their hills, rise the tall

TEMORA. 409

forms of the kings. Their people are poured aroumi
them, bending forward to their words : as if their
fathers spoke, descending from the winds. But
they themselves are like two rocks in the midst ;
each with its dark head of pines, when they are seen
in the desert, above low-sailing mist. High on
their face are streams, which spread their foam on
blasts of wind !

Beneath the voice of Cathmor pours Erin, like the
sound of flame. Wide they come down to Lubar.
Before them is the stride of Foldath. But Cathmor
retires to his hill, beneath his bending oak. The
tumbling of a stream is near the king. He lifts, at
times, his gleaming spear. It is a flame to his peo-
ple, in the midst of war. Neat him stands the
daughter of Conmor, leaning on a rock. She did not
rejoice at the strife. Her soul delighted not in blood.
A valley spreads green behind the hill, with its
three blue streams. The sun is there in silence.
The dun mountain-roes come down. On these
are turned the eyes of Sul-malla in her thoughtful
mood.

Fingal beholds Cathmor, ou high, the son of Bor-
bar-duthul ! he beholds the deep-rolling of Erin, on
the darkened plain. He strikes that warning boss,
which bids the people to obey, when he sends his
chief before them, to the field of renown. Wide
rise their spears to the sun. Their echoing shields
reply around. Fear, like a vapour, winds not among
the host; for he, the king, is near, the strength of
streamy Selma. Gladness brightens the hero. We
hear his words with joy.

' Like the coming forth of winds, is the sound
of Selma's sons ! They are mountain waters, deter-
mined in their course. Hence is Fingal renowned.
Hence is his name in other lands. He was not a
lonely beam in danger : for your steps were always
near ! But never was Fingal a dreadful form, in
your presence, darkened into wrath. My voice was
no thunder to your ears. Mine eyes sent forth no
death. When the haughty appeared, I beheld them
not. They were forgot at my feasts. Like mist
they melted away. A young beam is before you !

410 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Few are his paths to war ! They are few, but he is
valiant. Defend my dark-haired son. Bring Fillan
back with joy. Hereafter he may stand alone. His
form is like his fathers. His soul is a flame of their
fire. Son of car-borne Morni, move behind the
youth. Let thy voice reach his ear, from the skirts
of war. Not unobserved rolls battle, before thee,
breaker of the shields.'

The king strode, at once, away to Cormul's lofty-
rock. Intermitting, darts the light from his shield,
as slow the king of heroes moves. Sidelong rolls
his eye o'er the heath, as forming advance the lines.
Graceful fly his half-gray locks round his kingly-
features, now lightened with dreadful joy. Wholly
mighty is the chief ! Behind him dark and slow I
moved. Straight came forward the strength of Gaul.
His shield hung loose on its thong. He spoke, in
haste, to Ossian. ' Bind, son of Fingal, this shield !
Bind it high to the side of Gaul. The foe may be-
hold it, and think I lift the spear. If I should fall,
let my tomb be hid in the field ; for fall I must
without fame. Mine arm cannot lift the steel. Let
not Evir-choma hear it, to blush between her locks.
Fillan, the mighty behold us ! Let us not forget
the strife. Why should they come from their hills,
to aid our flying field?'

He strode onward, with the sound of his shield.
My voice pursued him as he went. ' Can the son
of Morni fall, without his fame, in Erin ? But the
deeds of the mighty are forgot by themselves. They
rush careless over the fields of renown. Their words
are never heard !' I rejoiced over the steps of the
chief. I strode to the rock of the king, where he
sat, in his wandering locks, amid the mountain
wind!

In two dark ridges bend the hosts toward each
other, at Lubar. Here Foldath rises a pillar of
darkness: there brightens the youth of Fillan. Each,
with his spear in the stream, sent forth the voice of
war. Gaul struck the shield of Selma. At once
they plunge in battle ! Steel pours its gleam on
steel : like the fall of streams shone the field, when
they mix their foam together, from two dark- browed

TEMORA. 411

rocks ! Behold he comes, the son of fame ! He lays
the people low ! Deaths sit on blasts around him !
Warriors strew thy paths, O Fillan !

Rothmar, the shield of warriors, stood between
two chinky rocks. Two oaks, which winds had
bent from high, spread their branches on either
side. He rolls his darkening eyes on Fillan, and,
silent, shades his friends. Fingal saw the approach-
ing fight. The hero's soul arose. But as the stone
of Loda * falls, shook, at once, from rocking Dru-
manard, when spirits heave the earth in their wrath ;
so fell blue-shielded Rothmar.

Near are the steps of Culmin. The youth came,
bursting into tears. Wrathful he cut the wind, ere
yet he mixed his strokes with Fillan. He had first
bent the bow with Rothmar, at the rock of his own
blue streams. There they had marked the place of
the roe, as the sunbeam flew over the fern. Why,
son of Cul-allin i Why, Culmin, dost thou rush on
that beam of light \ Ì It is a fire that consumes.
Son of Cul-allin, retire. Your fathers were not
equal in the glittering strife of the field. The
mother of Culmin remains in the hall. She looks
forth on blue-rolling Strutha. A whirlwind rises,
on the stream, dark-eddying round the ghost of
her son. His dogsrj: are howling in their place.
His shield is bloody in the hall. • Art thou fallen,
my fair-haired son, in Erin's dismal war ?'

As a roe, pierced in secret, lies panting, by her
wonted streams; the hunter surveys her feet of
wind ! He remembers her stately bounding before.
So lay the son of Cul-allin beneath the eye of Fil-
lan. His hair is rolled in a little stream. His blood

• By * the s^>ne of Loda' is meant a place of
worship among the Scandinavians.

t The poet metaphorically calls Fillan a beam
of light.

$ Dogs were thought to be sensible of the death
of their master, let it happen at ever so great a di-
stance. It was also the opinion of the times, that
the arms, which warriors left at home, became
bloody when they themselves fell in battle.

412 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

wanders on his shield. Still his hand holds the
sword, that failed him in the mirist of danger.
' Thou art fallen,' said Fillan, 'ere yet thy fame
was heard. Thy father sent thee to war. He ex-
pects to hear of thy deeds. He is gray, perhaps,
at his streams. His eyes are toward Moi-lena.
Hut thou shalt not return with the spoil of the
fallen foe !'

Fillan pours the flight of Erin before him, over
the resounding heath. But, man on man, fell
Morven before the dark-red rage of Foldath: for,
far on the field , he poured the roar of half his tribes.
Dermid stands before him in wrath. The sons of
Selma gathered around. But his shield is cleft by
Foldath. His people fly over the heath.

Then said the foe, in his pride, « They have fled.
My fame begins! Go, Malthos, go bid Cathmor
guard the dark-rolling of ocean ; that Fingal may
not escape from my sword. He must lie on earth.
Beside some fen shall his tomb be seen. It shall
rise without a song. His ghost shall hover, in
mist, over the reedy pool.'

Malthos heard, with darkening doubt. He rolled
his silent eyes. He knew the pride of Foldath. He
looked up to Fingal on his hills: then darkly turn-
ing in doubtful mood, he plunged his sword in war.

In Clono's narrow vale, where bend two trees
above the stream, dark in his grief, stood Duthno\
silent son. The blood pours from the side of Der-
mid. Iiis shield is broken near. His spear leans
against a stone. Why, Dermid, why so sad? 'I
hear the roar of battle. My people are alone. My
steps aie slow on the heath; and no shield is mine.
Shall he then prevail? It is then after Dermid is
low! I will call thee forth, O FoUuth ! and meet
thee yet in fight.'

He took his spear, with dreadful joy. The son
of Morni came. ' Stay, son of Duthno, stay thy
>peed. Thy steps are marked with blood. No bossy
shield is thine. Why shouldest thou fall un-
armed?'— 'Son of Morni! give thou thy shield. It
lias often rolled back the war. I shall stop the
chief in his course. Son of Morni ! behold that

TEMORA. 413

stone! It lifts its gray head through grass. There
dwells a chief of the race of Derinid. Place me
there in night.'

He slowly rose against the hill. lie saw the trou-
bled field: the gleaming ridges of battle, disjoined
and broken around. As distant (ires, on heath by
night, now seem as lost in smoke; now rearing
their red streams on the hill, as blow or cease the
winds, so met the intermitting war the eye of
broad-shielded Dermid. Through the host are the
strides of Foldath, like some dark ship on wintry
waves, when she issues from between two isles to
sport on resounding ocean !

Dermid, with rage, beholds his course. He strives
to rush along. But he fails amid his steps; and the
big tear comes down. He sounds his father's horn.
He thrice strikes his bossy shield. He calls thrice
the name of Foldath, from his roaring tribes. Fol-
dath, with joy, beholds the chief. He lifts aloft his
bloody spear. As a rock is marked with streams,
that fell troubled down its side in a storm ; so,
streaked with wandering blood, is the dark chief
of Moma ! The host on either side withdraw from
the contending kings. They raise, at once, their
gleaming points. Rushing comes Fillan of Selma.
Three paces back Foldath withdraws, dazzled with
that beam of light, which came, as issuing from a
cloud, to save the wounded chief. Growing in his
pride he stands. He calls forth all his steel.

As meet two broad-winged eagles, in their sound-
ing strife, in winds: so rush the two chiefs, on
Moi-lena, into gloomy fight. By turns are the steps
of the kings * forward on their rocks above ; for
now the dusky war seems to descend on their
swords. Cathmor feels the joy of warriors, on his
mossy hill : their joy in secret, when dangers rise
to match their souls. His eye is not turned on
Lubar, but on Selma's dreadful king. He beholds
him, on Mora, rising in his arms.

Foldath falls on his shield. The spear of Fillan
pierced the king. Nor looks the youth on the
fallen, but onward rolls the war. The hundred

* Fingal and Cathmor,

414 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

voices of death arise. • Stay, son of Fingal, stay
thy speed. Beholdest thou not that gleaming form,
a dreadful sign of death ? Awaken not the king of
Erin. Return, son of blue-eyed Clatho.'

Malthos beholds Foldath low. He darkly stands
above the chief. Hatred is rolled from his soul.
He seems a rock in a desert, on whose dark side
are the trickling of waters ; when the slow-sailing
mist has left it, and all its trees are blasted with
winds. He spoke to the dying hero about the nar-
row house. ' Whether shall thy gray stone rise in
Ullin, or in Moma's woody land ; where the sun
looks, in secret, on the blue streams of Dalrutho ?
There are the steps of thy daughter, blue-eyed
Dardu-lena !'

« Rememberest thou her,' said Foldath, « because
no son is mine : no youth to roll the battle before
him, in revenge of me ? Malthos, I am revenged. I
was not peaceful in the field. Raise the tombs of
those I have slain, around my narrow house. Often
shall I forsake the blast, to rejoice above their
graves; when I behold them spread around, with
their long-whistling grass.'

His soul rushed to the vale of Moma, to Dardu-
lena's dreams, where she slept, by Dalrutho's stream,
returning from the chase of the hinds. Her bow
is near the maid, unstrung. The breezes fold her
long hair on her breasts. Clothed in the beauty of
youth, the love of heroes lay. Dark-bending, from
the skirts of the wood, her wounded father seemed
to come. He appeared, at times, then hid himself
in mist. Bursting into tears she arose. She knew
that the chief was low. To her came a beam from
his soul, when folded in its storms. Thou wert the
last of his race, O blue-eyed Dardu-lena.

Wide-spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight of
Bolga is rolled along. Fillan hangs forward on
their steps. He strews, with dead, the heath. Fin-
gal rejoices over his son. Blue-shielded Cathmor
rose.

Son of Alpin, bring the harp. Give Fillan's praise
to the wind. Raise high his praise in mine ear,
while yet he shines in war.

' Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hall .' Be-

TEMORA. 41o

hold that early beam of thine ! The host is withered
in its course. No further look, it is dark. Light-
trembling from the harp, strike, virgins, strike the
sound. No hunter he descends, from the dewy
haunt of the bounding roe. He bends not his bow
on the wind; nor sends his gray arrow abroad.

' Deep-folded in red war ! See battle roll against
his side. Striding amid the ridgy strife, he pours
the death of thousands forth. Fillan is like a spirit
of heaven, that descends from the skirt of winds.
The troubled ocean feels his steps, as he strides
from wave to wave. His path kindles behind him.
Islands shake their heads on the heaving seas !
Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hall !'

TEMORA.

BOOK VI.

[This book opens with a speech of Fingal, who sees
Cathmor descending to the assistance of his flying
army. The king despatches Ossian to the relief
of Fillan. He himself retires behind the rock of
Cormul, to avoid the sight of the engagement be-
tween his son and Cathmor. Ossian advances.
The descent of Cathmor described. He rallies the
army, renews the battle, and, before Ossian could
arrive, engages Fillan himself. Upon the ap-
proach of Ossian, the combat between the two
heroes ceases. Ossian and Cathmor prepare to
fight, but night corning on, prevents them. Os-
sian returns to the place where Cathmor and Fil-
lan fought. He finds Fillan mortally wounded
and leaning against a rock. Their discourse.
Fillan dies ; his body is laid by Ossian in a neigh-
bouring cave. The Caledonian army return to
Fingal. He questions them about his son, and,
understanding that he was killed, retires, in si-
lence, to the rock of Cormul. Upon the retreat
of the army of Fingal, the Fir-bolg advance.
Cathmor finds Bran, one of the dogs of Fingal,
lying on the shield of Fillan, before the entrance
of the cave, where the body of that hero lay.
His reflections thereupon. He returns, in a me-
lancholy mood, to his army. Malthos endea-
vours to comfort him, by the example of his
father Borbar-duthul. Cathmor retires to rest.
The song of Sul-malla concludes the book, which
ends about the middle of the third night, from the
opening of the poem J

TEMORA. 417

• CATHMOR rises on his hill! Shall Fing.il take
the sword of Luno ? But what shall become of thy
fame, son of white-bosomed Clatho ? Turn not
thine eyes from Fingal, fair daughter of Inistore.
I shall not quench thy early beam. It shines along
my soul. Rise, wood-skirted Mora, rise between
the war and me ! Why should Fingal behold the
strife, lest his dark-haired warrior should fall ?
Amidst the song, O Carril, pour the sound of the
trembling harp! Here are the voices of rocks ! and
there the bright tumbling of waters. Father of
Oscar! lift the spear! Defend the young in arms.
Conceal thy steps from Fillan. He must not know
that I doubt his steel. No cloud of mine shall rise,
my son, upon thy soul of fire !"

He sunk behind his rock, amid the sound of Car-
ry's sung. Brightening, in my growing soul, I
took the spear of Temora. I saw, along Moi-lena,
the wild tumbling of battle ; the strife of death, in
gleaming rows, disjoined and broken round. Fillan
is a beam of fire. From wing to wing is his waste-
ful course. The ridges of war melt before him. They
are rolled, in smoke, from the fields !

Now is the coming forth of Cathmor, in the ar-
mour of kings ! Dark waves the eagle's wing, above
his helmet of fire. Unconcerned are his steps, as
if they were to the chase of Erin. He raises, at
times, his terrible voice. Erin, abashed, gathers
round. Their souls return back, like a stream.
They wonder at the steps of their fear. He rose,
like the beam of the morning, on a haunted heath :
the traveller looks back, with bending eye, on the
field of dreadful forms ! Sudden, from the rock of
Moi-lena, are Sul-malla's trembling steps. An oak
takes the spear from her hand. Half-bent she
looses the lance. But then are her eyes on the king
from amid her wandering locks ! No friendly strife
is before thec ! No light contending of bows, as
when the youth of Inis-huna come forth beneath
the eye of Conir.or !

As the rock of Runo, which takes the passing
clouds as they fly, seems growing, in gathered dark-
ness, over the streamy heath; so seems the chief
T2

113 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

of Atha taller, as gather his people around. As dif-
ferent blasts fly over the sea, each behind its dark-
blue wave; so Cathmor's words, on every side,
pour his warriors forth. Nor silent on his hill is
Fillan. He mixes his words with his echoing shield.
An eagle he seemed, with sounding wings, calling
the wind to his rock, when he sees the coming forth
of the roes, on Lutha's rushy field!

Now they bend forward in battle. Death's hun-
dred voices arise. The kings, on either side, were
like fires on the souls of the host. Ossian bounded
along. High rocks and trees rush tall between the
war and me. But I hear the noise of steel, between
my clanging arms. Rising, gleaming, on the hill,
I behold the backward steps of hosts; their back-
ward steps on either side, and wildly-looking eyes.
The chiefs were met in dreadful fight ! The two
blue-shielded kings ! Tall and dark, through gleams
of steel, are seen the striving heroes ' I rush. My
fears for Fillan fly, burning across my soul.

I come. Nor Cathmor flies, nor yet comes on ;
he sidelong stalks along. An icy rock, cold, tall,
he seems. I call forth all my steel. Silent awhile
we stride, on either side of a rushing stream : then,
sudden turning, all at once, we raise our pointed
spears. We raise our spears, but night comes down.
Ft is dark and silent round; but where the distant
steps of hosts are sounding over the heath !

I come to the place where Fillan fought. Nor
voice nor sound is there. A broken helmet lies on
earth, a buckler cleft in twain. Where, Fillan,
where art thou, young chief of echoing Morven ?
lie hears me, leaning on a rock, which bends its
gray head over the stream. He hears ; but sullen,
dark he stands. At length I saw the hero !

* Why standest thou robed in darkness, son of
woody Selma ? Bright is thy path, my brother, in
this dark-brown field ! Long has been thy strife in
battle ! Now the horn of Fingal is he:ml. Ascend
to the cloud of thy father, to his hill of feasts. In
the evening mist he sits, and hears the sound of
( anil's harp. Carry joy to the aged, young breaker
of the shields !'

TEMORA. 419

• Can the vanquished carry joy ? Ossian, do shield
is mine ! It lies broken on the field. The eagle-wing
of my helmet is torn. It is when foes fly before them
that fathers delight in their sons. But their sighs
burst forth, in secret, when their young warriors
yield. No : Fillan shall not behold the king ! Why
should the hero mourn ?'

« Son of blue-eyed Clatho ! O Fillan, awake not
my soul ! Wert thou not a burning fire before him ?
Shall he not rejoice ? Such fame belongs not to Os-
sian ; yet is the king still a sun to me. He looks on
my steps with joy. Shadows never rise on his face.
Ascend, O Fillan, to Mora ! His feast is spread in
the folds of mist.'

' Ossian ! give me that broken shield : these fea-
thers that are rolled in the wind. Place them near
to Fillan, that less of his fame may fall. Ossian, I
begin to fail. Lay me in that hollow rock. Raise
no stone above, lest one should ask about my fame.
I am fallen in the first of my fields, fallen without
renown. Let thy voice alone sendjoy to my flying
soul. Why should the bard know where dwells the
lost beam of Clatho ?'

* Is thy spirit on the eddying winds, O Fillan,
young breaker of shields. Joy pursue my hero,
through his folded clouds. The forms of thy fathers,

0 Fillan, bend to receive their son. I behold the
spreading of their fire on Mora : the blue-rolling of
their wreaths. Joy meet thee, my brother ! But we
are dark and sad ! I behold the foe round the aged.

1 behold the wasting away of his fame. Thou art
left alone in the field, O gray-haired king of
Selma !'

I laid him in the hollow rock, at the roar of the
nightly stream. One red star looked in on the hero.
Winds lift, at times, his locks. I listen. No sound
is heard. The warrior slept i As lightning on a
cloud, a thought came rushing along my soul. My
eyes roll in fire : my stride was in the clam; of
steel. « I will find thee, king of Erin ! in the gather-
ing of thy thousands find thee. Wrhy should that
cloud escape, that quenched our early beam ! Kin-
dle your meteors on your hills, my fathers. Light

420 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

my daring steps. I will consume in wrath* — But
should not I return ? The king is without a son,
gray-haired among his foes ! His arm is not as in
the days of old. His fame grows dim in Erin. Let
me not behold him, laid low in his latter field. —
But can I return to the king ? Will he not ask about
his son ? « Thou oughtest to defend young Fillan.'
— Ossian will meet the foe. Green Erin, thy sound-
ing tread is pleasant to my ear. I rush on thy ridgy
host, to shun the eyes of Fingal. — I hear the voice
of the king, on Mora's misty top ! He calls his two
sons ! I come, my father, in my grief. I come like
an eagle, which the flame of night met in the de-
sert, and spoiled of half his wings!'

Distant, round the king, on Mora, the broken
ridges of Morven are rolled. They turned their
eyes: each darkly bends, on his own ashen spear.
Silent stood the king in the midst. Thought on
thought rolled over his soul, as waves on a secret
mountain-lake, each with its back of foam. He
looked ; no son appeared with his long-beaming
spear. The sighs rose crowding from his soul ;
but he concealed his grief. At length I stood be-
neath an oak. No voice of mine was heard. What
could I say to Fingal in his hour of woe ? His words
rose, at length, in the midst : the people shrunk
backward as he spoke.

' Where is the son of Selma ; he who led in war ?
I behold not his steps, among my people, return-
ing from the field. Fell the young bounding roe,

* Here the sentence is designedly left unfinished .
The sense is, that he was resolved, like a destroying
fire, to consume Cathmor, who had killed his bro-
ther. In the midst of this resolution, the situation
of Fingal suggests itself to liim, in a very strong
light. He resolves to return to assist the king in
prosecuting the war. But then his shame for not
defending his brother recurs to him. He is deter-
mined again to go and find out Cathmor. We may
consider him as in the act of advancing towards the
enemy, when the horn of Fingal sounded on Mora,
and called back his people to his presence.

TEMOR.V. 491

who was so stately on my hills ? He fell ! for ye are
silent. The shield of war is cleft in twain. Let his
armour be near to Fingal ; and the sword of dark-
brown Luno. I am waked on my hills ; with morn-
ing I descend to war.'

High on Cormul's rock, an oak is flaming to the
wind. The gray skirts of mist are rolled around ;
thither strode the king in his wrath. Distant from
the host he always lay, when battle burnt within
his soul. On two spears hung his shield on high ;
the gleaming sign of death ! that shield, which he
was wont to strike, by night, before he rushed to
war. It was then his warriors knew, when the king
was to lead in strife; for never was his buckler
heard, till the wrath of Fingal arose. Unequal
were his steps on high, as he shone on the beam of
the oak ; he was dreadful as the form of the spirit
of night, when he clothes, on hills, his wild ges-
tures with mist, and, issuing forth, on the troubled
ocean, mounts the car of winds.

Nor settled, from the storm, is Erin's sea of war !
they glitter, beneath the moon, and, low-humming,
still roll on the field. Alone are the steps of Cath-
mor, before them on the heath ; he hangs forward
with all his arms, on Morven's flying host. Now
had he come to the mossy cave, where Fillan lay in
night. One tree was bent above the stream, which
glittered over the rock. There shone to the moon
the broken shield of Clatho's son ; and near it, on
grass, lay haiiy- footed Bran. He had missed the
chief on Mora, and searched him along the wind.
He thought that the blue-eyed hunter slept; he lay
upon his shield. No blast came over the heath,
unknown to bounding Bran.

Cathmor saw the white-breasted dog; he saw the
broken shield. Darkness is blown back on his soul :
he remembers the falling away of the people. They
came, a stream ; are rolled away ; another race suc-
ceeds. < But some mark the fields, as they passed,
with their own mighty names. The heath, through
dark-brown years, is theirs ; some blue stream winds
to their fame. Of these be the chief of Atha,
when he lays him down on earth. Often may

4-22 THE POEMS OF OSSIAX.

the voice of future times meet Cathmor in the air ;
when he strides from wind to wind, or folds him-
self in the wing of a storm.'

Green Erin gathered round the king, to hear the
voice of his power. Their joyful faces bend un-
equal, forward, in the light of the oak. They who
were terrible were removed : Lubar winds again in
their host. Cathmor was that beam from heaven,
which shone when his people were dark. He was
honoured in the midst. Their souls arose with ar-
dour around. The king alone no gladness showed ;
no stranger he to war !

• Why is the king so sad ?' said Malthos eagle-eyed.
' Remains there a foe at Lubar ? Lives there among
them who can lift the spear ? Not so peaceful was
thy father, Borbar-duthul, king of spears. His rage
was a fire that always burned : his joy over fallen
foes was great. Three days feasted the gray-haired
hero, when he heard that Calmar fell : Calmar who
aided the race of Ullin from Lara of the streams.
Often did he feel, with his hands, the steel which,
they said, had pierced his foe. He felt it with his
hands, for Borbar-duthul's eyes had failed. Yet
was the king a sun to his friends ; a gale to lift then-
branches round. Joy was around him in his halls ;
he loved the sons of Bolga. His name remains in
Atha, like the awful memory of ghosts, whose pre-
sence was terrible, but they blew the storm away.
Now let the voices of Erin * raise the soul of the
king ; he that shone when war was dark, and laid
the mighty low. Fonar, from that gray-browed rock
pour the tale of other times : pour it on wide-skirt-
ed Erin, as it settles round.'

• To me,' said Cathmor, « no song shall rise; nor
Fonar sit on the rock of Lubar. The mighty there
are laid low. Disturb not their rushing ghosts. Far,
Malthos, far remove the sound of Erin's song. I
rejoice not over the foe, when he ceases to lift the
spear. With morning we pour our strengtli abroad.
Fingal is wakened on his echoing hill.'

Like waves, blown back by sudden winds, Erin

* A poetical expression for the bards of Ireland.

TEMORA. 4-j ò

retired, at the voice of the king. Deep-rolled into
the field of night, they spread their humming tribes.
Beneath his own tree, at intervals, each bard sat
down with his harp. They raised the song, and
touched the string : each to the chief he loved. Be-
fore a burning oak Sul-malla touched, at times, the
harp. She touched the harp, and heard, between,
the breezes in her hair. In darkness near, lay the
king of Atha, beneath an aged tree. The beam of
the oak was turned from him ; he saw the maid, but
was not seen. His soul poured forth, in secret,
when he beheld her fearful eye. ' But battle is be-
fore thee, son of Borbar-dulhul.'

Amidst the harp, at intervals, she listened whether
the warrior slept. Her soul was up ; she longed, in
secret, to pour her own sad song. The field is si-
lent. On their wings the blasts of night retire. The
bards had ceased ; and meteors came, red-winding
with their ghosts. The sky grew dark : the forms
of the dead were blended with the clouds. But
heedless bends the daughter of Conmor over the
decaying flame. Thou wert alone in her soul, cav-
borne chief of Atha. She raised the voice of the
song, and touched the harp between.

• Clun-galo * came; she missed the maid. AVhere
art thou, beam of light? Hunters, from the mossy
roek, saw ye the blue-eyed fair ? Are her steps on
gra-^y Lumon: near the bed of roes? Ah me' I
behold her bow in the hall. Where art thou, beam
of light:-"

' Cease, iove of Conmor, cease! I hear thee not
on the ridgy heath. My eye is turned to the king,
whose path is terrible in war. He for whom my
soul is up,- in the season of my rest. Deep-bosomed
in war he stands ; he beholds me not from his cloud.
Why, sun of Sul-malla, dost thou not look forth ?
I dwell in darkness here: wide over me flies the
shadowy mist. Filled with dew are my locks ; look
thou from thy cloud, Osun of Sulmalla's soul !'

• Clun-galo, the wife of Conmor, king of Inis-
huna, and the mother of Sul-m«lla. She is here re-
presented as missing her daughter, after she had
fled with Cathmor.

TEMORA.

BOOK VII.

[This book begins about the middle of the third
night from the opening of the poem. The Poet
describes a kind of mist, which rose by night
from the lake of Lego, and was the usual resi-
dence of the souls of the dead, during the inter-
val between their decease and the funeral song.
The appearance of the ghost of Fillan above the
cave where his body lay. His voice comes to
Fingal on the rock of Cormul. The king strikes
the shield of Trenmor, which was an infallible
sign of his appearing in arms himself. The ex-
traordinary effect of the sound of the shield. Sul-
malla, starting from sleep, awakes Cathmor.
Their affecting discourse. She insists with him
to sue for peace ; he resolves to continue the war.
He directs her to retire to the neighbouring val-
ley of Lona, which was the residence of an old
Druid, until the battle of the next day should be
over. He awakes his army with the sound of his
shield. The shield described. Fonar, the bard,
at the desire of Cathmor, relates the first settle-
ment of the Fir-bolg in Ireland, under their
leader Larthon. Morning comes. Sul-malla re-
tires to the valley of Lona. A lyric song con-
cludes the book.]

FROM the wood-skirted waters of Lego, ascend, at
times, gray-bosomed mists ; when the gates of the
west are closed on the sun's eagle-eye. Wide,
over Lara's stream, is poured the vapour dark and
deep; — the moon, like a dim shield, by swimming
through its folds. With this, clothe the spirits of
old their sudden gestures on the wind, when they
stride, from blast to blast, along the dusky night.
Often, blended with the gale, to some warrior's

TEMORA. 425

grave, they roll the mist, a gray dwelling to his
ghost, until the songs arise.

A sound came from the desert ; it was Conar,
king of Inis-fail. He poured his mist on the grave
of Fillan, at blue-winding Lubar. Dark and
mournful sat the ghost, in his gray ridge of smoke.
The blast, at times, rolled him together : but the
form returned again. It returned with bending
eyes, and dark winding of locks of mist.

It was dark. The sleeping host were still, in the
skirts of night. The flame decayed, on the hill of
Fingal ; the king lay lonely on his shield. His
eyes were half-closed in sleep: the voice of Fillan
came. ' Sleeps the husband of Clatho ? Dwells the
father of the fallen in rest ? Am I forgot in the
folds of darkness; lonely in the season of night ?'

' Why dost thou mix,' said the king, < with the
dreams of thy father ? Can I forget thee, my son,
or thy path of fire in the field ? Not such come the
deeds of the valiant on the soul of Fingal. They
are not there a beam of lightning, which is seen,
and is then no more. I remember thee, O Fillan !
and my wrath begins to rise.'

The king took his deathful spear, and struck the
deeply-sounding shield — his shield, that hung high
in night, the dismal sign of war. Ghosts fled on
every side, and rolled their gathered forms on the
wind. Thrice from the winding vales arose the
voice of deaths. The harps of the bards, untouch-
ed, sound mournful over the hill.

He struck again the shield ; battles rose in the
dreams of his host. The wide-tumbling strife is
gleaming over their souls. Blue-shielded kings de-
scend to war. Backward-looking armies fly ; and
mighty deeds are half hid in the bright gleams of
steel.

But when the third sound arose, deer started
from the clefts of their rocks. The screams of fowl
are heard in the desert, as each flew, frightened on
his blast. The sons of Selma half-rose, and half-
assumed their spears. But silence rolled back on
the host : they knew the shield of the king. Sleep
returned to their eyes ; the field was dark and still.

i>6 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

No sleep was thine in darkness, blue-eyed daugh-
ter of Conmor ! Sul-malla heard the dreadful
shield, and rose, amid the night. Her steps are to-
wards the king of Atha. '■ Can danger shake his
daring soul ?' In doubt, she stands, with bending
eyes. Heaven burns with all its stars.

Again the shield resounds ! She rushed. She
stopped. Her voice half-rose. It failed. She saw him,
amidst his arms, that gleamed to heaven's fire.
She saw him dim in his locks, that rose to nightly
wind. Away, for fear, she turned her steps. ' Why
should the king of Erin awake ? Thou art not a
dream to his rest, daughter of Inis-huna.'

More dreadful rings the shield. Sul-malla starts.
Her helmet falls. Loud echoes Lubar's rock, as
over it rolls the steel. Bursting from the dreams
of night, Cathmor half-rose beneath his tree. He
saw the form of the maid above him, on the rock.
A red star, with twinkling beam, looked through
her floating hair.

* Who comes through night to Cathmor, in the
season of his dreams ? Bring'st thou aught of war ?
Who art thou, son of night ? Stand'st thou before
me, a form of the times of old ? A voice from the
fold of a cloud, to warn me of the danger of Erin ?'

* Nor lonely scout am I, nor voice from folded
cloud/ she said, « but I warn thee of the danger of
Erin. Dost thou hear that sound ? It is not the
feeble, king of Atha, that rolls his signs on night.'

* Let the warrior roll his signs,' he replied ; ' to
Cathmor they are the sounds of harps. My joy is
great, voice of night, and burns over all my
thoughts. This is the music of kings, on lonely
hills, by night ; when they light their daring souls,
the sons of mighty deeds ! The feeble dwell alone,
in the valley of the breeze: where mists lift their
morning skirts from the blue-winding streams.'

' Not feeble, king of men, were they, the fathers
of my race. They dwelt in the folds of battle, in
their distant lands. Vet delights not my soul in the
signs of death ! He, who never yields, comes forth :
O send the bard of peace !'

Like a dropping rock in the desert, stood Cath-

TEMORA. -vn

mor in his tears. Her voice came, a breeze on his
soul, and waked the memory of her land ; where
she dwell by her peaceful streams, before he came
to the war of Conmor.

' Daughter of strangers,' he said (she trembling
turned away), 'long have I marked thee in thy
steel, young pine of Inis-huna. But my soul, I
said, is folded in a storm. Why should that beam
arise, till my steps return in peace ? Have I been
pale in thy presence, as thou bid'st me to fear the
king ? The time of danger, O maid, is the season
of my soul; for then it swells a mighty stream,
and rolls me on the foe.

' Beneath the moss-covered rock of Lona, near
his own loud stream ; gray in his locks of age,
dwells Clonmal king of harps. Above him is his
echoing tree, and the dun bounding of roes. The
noise of our strife reaches his ear, as he bends in
the thoughts of years. There let thy rest be, Sul-
malla, until our battle cease. Until I return, in my
arms, from the skirts of the evening mist, that rises
on Lona, round the dwelling of my love.'

A light fell on the soul of the maid : it rose
kindled before the king. She turned her face to
Cathmor, from amidst her waving locks. ' Sooner
shall the eagle of heaven be torn from the stream
of his roaring wind, when he sees the dun prey be-
fore him, the young sons of the bounding roe, than
thou, O Cathmor, be turned from the strife of re-
nown. Soon may I see thee, warrior, from the
skirts of the evening mist, when it is rolled around
me, on Lona of the streams. While yet thou art
distant far, strike, Cathmor, strike the shield, that
joy may return to my darkened soul, as I lean on
the mossy rock. But if thou shouldst fall, I am in
the land of strangers ; O send thy voice, from thy
cloud, to the maid of Inis-huna !'

' Young branch of green-headed Lumen, why
dost thou shake in the storm ? Often has Cathmor
returned, from darkly-rolling wars. The darts of
death are but hail to me ; they have often rattled
along my shield. I have risen brightened from bat-
tle, like a meteor from a stormy cloud. Return

4J8 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

not, fair beam, from thy vale, when the roar of bat-
tle grows. Then might the foe escape, as from my
fathers of old.

' They told to Son mor, of Clunar, who was slain
by Cormac in fight. Three days darkened Son-
mor, over his brother's fall. His spouse beheld the
silent king and foresaw his steps to war. She pre-
pared the bow, in secret, to attend her blue-shield-
ed hero. To her dwelt darkness, at Atha, when he
was not there. From their hundred streams, by
night, poured down the sons of Alnecma. They
had heard the shield of the king, and their rage
arose. In clanging arms, they moved along to-
wards Ullin of the groves. Son-mor struck his
shield, at times, the leader of the war.

'Far behind followed Sul-allin, over the streamy
hills. She was a light on the mountain, when they
crossed the vale below. Her steps were stately on
the vale, when they rose on the mossy hill. She
feared to approach the king, who left her in echo-
ing Atha. But when the roar of battle rose ; when
host was rolled on host; when Son-mor burnt, like
the fire of heaven in clouds, with her spreading hair
came Sul-allin ; for she trembled for her king. He
stopped the rushing strife to save the love of heroes.
The foe fled by night; Clunar slept without his
blood; the blood which ought to be poured upon
the warrior's tomb.

« Nor rose the rage of Son-mor, but his days were
silent and dark. Sul-allin wandered by her gray
streams, with her tearful eyes. Often did she look
on the hero, when he was folded in his thoughts.
But she shrunk from his eyes, and turned her lone
steps away. Battles rose, like a tempest, and drove
the mist from his soul. He beheld, with joy, her
steps in the hall, and the white rising of her hands
on the harp.'

In his arms strode the chief of Atha, to where
his shield hung, high, in night: high on a mossy
bough over Lubar's streamy roar. Seven bosses
rose on the shield ; the seven voices of the king,
which his warriors received, from the wind, and
marked over all their tribes.

TEMORA. 4\.;9

On each boss is placed a star of night: Can-
mathon with beams unshorn; Col-derna rising from
a cloud ; L'1-oicho robed in mist ; and the soft beam
of C'athlin glittering on a rock. .Smiling, on its own
blue wave, Rel-durath half sinks its western light.
The red eye of Berthin looks, through a grove, on
the hunter, as he returns, by night, with the spoils
of the bounding roe Wide, in the midst, arose the
cloudless beams of Ton-thèna, that star, which
looked, by night, on the course of the sea-tossed
Larthon : Larthon, the first of Bolga's race, who
travelled on the winds. White-bosomed spread the
sails of the king, towards streamy Inis-fail ; dun
night was rolled before him, with its skirts of mist.
[Inconstant blew the winds, and rolled him from
wave to wave. Then rose the fiery-haired Ton-
tin na, and smiled from her parted cloud. Larthon
blessed the well-known beam, as it faint gleamed
on the deep.

Beneath the spear of Cathmor, rose that voice
which awakes the bards. They came, dark-winding
from every side; each with the sound of his harp.
Before him rejoiced the king, as the traveller, in
the day of the sun ; when he hears, far rolling
around, the murmur of mossy streams: streams
that burst in the desert, from the rock of roes.

' Why,' said Fonar, 'hear we the voice of the
king, in the season of his rest ? Were the dim
forms of thy fathers bending in thy dreams ?
Perhaps they stand on that cloud, and wait for
Fonar's song; often they come to the fields where
their sons are to lift the spear. Or shall our voice
arise for him who lifts the spear no more ; he that
consumed the field, from Moma of the groves ?'

• Not forgot is that cloud in war, bard of other
times. High shall his tomb rise, on Moi-lena, the
duelling of renown. But, now, roll back my soul
to the times of my fathers ; to the years when first
they rose, on Inis-huna's waves. Nor alone pleasant
to Cathmor is the remembrance of wood-covered
Lumon — Lumon of the streams, the dwelling of
white-bosomed maids.'

430 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

' Lumon* of the streams, thou risest on Fonar's
soul ! Thy sun is on thy side, on the rocks of thy
bending trees. The dun-roe is seen from thy furze;
the deer lifts his branchy head ; for he sees at times
the hound on the half-covered heath. Slow, on the
vale, are the steps of maids; the white-armed
daughters of the bow : they lift their blue eyes to
the hill, from amidst their wandering locks. Not
there is the stride of Larthon, chief of Inis-huna.
He mounts the wave on his own dark oak, in
Cluba's ridgy bay. That oak which he cut from
Lumon, to bound along the sea. The maids turn
their eyes away, lest the king should be lowly laid ;
for never had they seen a ship, dark rider of the
wave !

'Now he dares to call the winds, and to mix
with the mist of ocean. Blue Inis-fail rose, in
smoke; but dark-skirted night came clown. The
sons of Bolga feared. The fiery-haired Ton-thèna
rose. Culbin's bay received the ship, in the bosom
of its echoing woods. There issued a stream from
Duthuma's horrid cave ; where spirits gleamed, at
times, with their half-finished forms.

' Dreams descended on Larthon : he saw seven
spirits of his fathers. He heard their half-formed
words, and dimly beheld the times to come. He
beheld the kings of Atha, the sons of future days.
They led their hosts along the field, like ridges of
mist, which winds pour in autumn, over Atha of the
groves.

« Larthon raised the hall of Samla, to the music
of the harp. He went forth to the roes of Erin, to
their wonted streams. Nor did he forget green-
headed Lumon ; he often bounded over his seas,
to where white-handed Flathal looked from the hill
of roes. Lumon of the foamy streams, thou risest
on Fonar's soul !'

Morning pours from the east. The misty heads
of the mountains rise. Valleys show, on every
side, the gray winding of their streams. His host

* A hill, in Inis-huna, near the residence of Sul-
malla.

TEMORA. 431

heard the shield of Cathmor : at once they rose
around ; like a crowded sea, when first it feels the
wings of the wind. The waves know not whither
to roll ; they lift their troubled heads.

Sad and slow retired Sul-malla to Lona of the
streams. She went, and often turned ; her blue
eyes rolled in tears. But when she came to the
rock, that darkly-covered Lona's vale, she looked,
from her bursting soul, on the king ; and sunk, at
once, behind.

Son of Alpin; strike the string. Is there aught of
joy in the harp? Pour it then on the soul of Os-
sian: it is folded in mist. I hear thee, Obard! in
my night. But cease the lightly-trembling sound.
The joy of grief belongs to Ossian, amidst his dark-
brown years.

Green thorn of the hill of ghosts, that shakest
thy head to nightly winds ! I hear no sound in
thee ; is there no spirit's windy skirt now rustling
in thy leaves ? Often are the steps of the dead, in
the dark-eddying blasts; when the moon, a dun
shield, from the east, is rolled along the sky.

Ullin, Carril, and Ryno, voices of the days of
old ! Let me hear you, while yet it is daxk, to
please and awake my soul. I hear you not, ye
sons of song ; in what hall of the clouds is your
rest ? Do you touch the shadowy harp, robed with
morning mist, where the rustling sun comes forth
from his green-headed waves ?

TEMORA.

BOOK VII I.

[The fourth morning, from the opening of the
poem, comes on. Fingal, still continuing in
the place to which he had retired on the pre-
ceding night, is seen at intervals, through the
mist which covered the rock of Cormul. The
descent of the king is described. He orders
Gaul, Derinid, and Carril the bard, to go to the
valley of China, and conduct from thence to the
Caledonian army. Ferad-artho, the son of Cair-
bar, the only person remaining of the family of
Conar, the first king of Ireland. The king
takes the command of the army and prepares
for battle. Marching towards the enemy, he
comes to the cave of Lubar, where the body of
Kiilan lay. Upon seeing his dog, Bran, who lay
at the entrance of the cave, his grief returns.
Cathmor arranges the Irish army in order of
battle. The appearance of that hero. The ge-
neral conflict is described. The actions of Fin-
gal and Cathmor. A storm. The total rout of
the Fir-bolg. The two kings engage, in a column
of mist, on the banks of Lubar. Their attitude
and conference after the combat. The death of
Cathmor. Fingal resigns the spear of Trenmor
to Ossian. The ceremonies observed on that oc-
casion. The spirit of Cathmor, in the mean
time, appears to Sul-malla, in the valley of
Lona. Her sorrow. Evening comes on. A feast
is prepared. The coming of Ferad-artho is an-
nounced by the songs of a hundred bards. The
poem closes with a speech of Fingal.]

AS when the wintry winds have seized the waves
of the mountain lake, have seized them in stormy

TEMORA. 433

night, and clothed them over with ice; white, to
the hunter's early eye, the billows still seem to
roll. He turns his ear to the sound of each unequal
ridge. But each is silent, gleaming, strewn with
boughs and tufts of grass, which shake and whistle
to the wind, over their gray seats of frost. So
silent shone to the morning the ridges of Morven's
host, as each warrior looked up from his helmet
towards the hill of the king ; the cloud-covered hill
of Fingal, where he strode, in the folds of mist.
At times is the hero seen, greatly dim in all his
arms. From thought to thought rolled the war,
along his mighty soul.

Now is the coming forth of the king. First ap-
peared the sword of Luno; the spear half-issuing
from a cloud, the shield still dim in mist. But
when the stride of the king came abroad, with all
his gray, dewy locks in the wind; then rose the
shouts of his host over every moving tribe. They
gathered, gleaming round, with all their echoing
shields. So rise the green seas round a spirit, that
comes down from the squally wind. The traveller
hears the sound afar, and lifts his head over the
rock. He looks on the troubled bay, and thinks
he dimly sees the form. The waves sport, un-
wieldy, round, with all their backs of foam.

Far distant stood the son of Morni, Duthno's
race, and Cona's bard. We stood far distant ; each
beneath his tree. We shunned the eyes of the
king : we had not conquered in the field. A little
stream rolled at my feet : I touched its light wave
with my spear. I touched it with my spear : nor
there was the soul of Ossian. It darkly rose, from
thought to thought, and sent abroad the sigh.

* Son of Morni,' said the king, ' Dermid, hunter
of roes ! why are ye dark, like two rocks, each with
its trickling waters? No wrath gathers on Fingal's
soul, against the chiefs of men. Ye are my strength
in battle; the kindling of my joy in peace. My
early voice has been a pleasant gale to your ears,
when Fillan prepared the bow. The son of Fingal
is not here, nor yet the chase of the bounding
U

434 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

roes. But why should the breakers of shields

stand, darkened, far away ?'

Tall they strode towards the king ; they saw
him turned to Mora's wind. His tears came down
for his blue-eyed son, who slept in the cave of
streams. Buthe brightened before them, and spoke
to the broad-shielded kings.

' Crommal, with woody rocks, and misty top,
the field of winds, pours forth, to the sight, blue
Lubar's streamy roar. Behind it rolls clear-winding
Lavath, in the still vale of deer. A cave is dark
in a rock; above it strong-winged eagles dwell;
broad-headed oaks, before it, sound in Cluna's
wind. Within, in his locks of youth, is Ferad-
artho, blue-eyed king; the son of broad-shielded
(airbar, from Ullin of the roes. He listens to the
voice of Condan, as, gray, he bends in feeble light.
He listens, for his foes dwell in the echoing halis
of Temcra. He comes, at times, abroad in the
skirts of mist, to pierce the bounding roes. When
the sun looks on the field, nor by the rock, nor
stream, is he! He shuns the race of Bolga, who
dwell in his fathers' hall. Tell him, that Fingal
lifts the spear, and that his foes, perhaps, may
fail. .

« Lift up, O Gaul, the shield before him. Stretch,
Dermid, Temora's spear. Be thy voice in his ear,
O Carril, with the deeds of his fathers. Lead him
to green Moi-lena, to the dusky field of ghosts;
for there, I fall forward, in battle, in the folds of
war. Before dun night descends, come to high
Dunmora's top. Look, from the gray skirts of
mist, on Lena of the streams. If there my stand-
ard shall float on wind, over Lubar's gleaming
stream, then has not Fingal failed in the last of
his fields.'

, Such were his words ; nor aught replied the
silent, striding kings. They looked sidelong, on
Erin's host, and darkened, as they went. Never
before had they left the king, in the midst of the
stormy field. Behind them, touching at times Lis
harp, the gray-haired Carril moved. He foresaw

TEMORA. 435

the fall of the people, and mournful was the
sound ! It was like a breeze that comes by fits,
over Lego's reedy lake; when sleep half descends
on the hunter, within his mossy cave.

' Why bends the bard of Cona,' said Fingal,
' over his secret stream ? Is this a time for sorrow,
father of low-laid Oscar ? Be the warriors remem-
bered in peace ; when echoing shields are heard no
more. Bend, then, in grief, over the flood, where
blows the mountain breeze. Let them pass on thy
soul, the blue-eyed dwellers of the tomb. But Erin
rolls to war; wide-tumbling, rough, and dark.
Lift, Ossian, lift the shield. I am alone, my
son!'

As comes the sudden voice of winds to the be-
calmed ship of Inis-huna, and drives it large, along
the deep, dark rider of the wave ; so the voice of
Fingal sent Ossian, tall, along the heath. He lifted
high his shining shield, in the dusky wing of war ;
like the broad, blank moon, in the skirt of a cloud,
before the storms arise.

Loud, from moss-covered Mora, poured down, at
once, the broad-winged war. Fingal led his people
forth, king of Morven of streams. On high spreads
the eagle's wing. His gray hair is poured on his
shoulders broad. In thunder are his mighty strides.
He often stood, and saw, behind, the wide-gleam-
ing rolling of armour. A rock he seemed, gray over
with ice, whose woods are high in wind. Blight
streams leap from its head, and spread their foam
on blasts.

Now he came to Lubar's cave, where Fillan
darkly slept. Bran still lay on the broken shield :
the eagle-wing is strewed by the winds. Bright,
from withered furze, looked forth the hero's spear.
Then grief stirred the soul of the king, like whirl-
winds blackening on a lake. He turned his sudden
step, and leaned on his bending spear.

White-breasted Bran came bounding with joy to
the known path of Fingal. He came, and looked
towards the cave, where the blue-eyed hunter lay,
for he was wont to stride, with morning, to the
dewy bed of the roe. It was then the tears of the

436 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

king came down, and all his soul was dark. But
as the rising wind rolls away the storm of rain, and
leaves the white streams to the sun, and high hills
with their heads of grass; so the returning war
brightened the mind of Fingal. He bounded, on
his spear, over Lubar, and struck his echoing
shield. His ridgy host bend forward, at once, with
all their pointed steel.

Nor Erin heard, with fear, the sound : wide they
came rolling along. Dark Malthos, in the wing of
war, looks forward from shaggy brows. Next rose
that beam of light, Hidalla! then the sidelong
looking gloom of Maronnan. Blue-shielded Clonar
lifts the spear ; Cormar shakes his bushy locks on
the wind. Slowly, from behind a rock, rose the
bright form of Atha. First appeared his two
pointed spears, then the half of his burnished
shield : like the rising of a nightly meteor, over
the vale of ghosts. But when he shone all abroad,
the hosts plunged at once into strife. The gleam-
ing waves of steel are poured on either side.

As meet two troubled seas, with the rolling of all
their waves, when they feel the wings of contend-
ing winds, in the rock-sided firth of Lumon ; along
the echoing hills is the dim course of ghosts : from
the blast fall the torn groves on the deep, amidst
the foamy path of whales. So mixed the hosts !
Now Fingal, now Cathmor came abroad. The
dark tumbling of death is before them : the gleam
of broken steel is rolled on their steps, as, loud,
the high-bounding kings hewed down the ridge of
shields.

Maronnan fell, by Fingal, laid large across a
stream. The waters gathered by his side, and
leapt gray over his bossy shield. Clonar is pierced
by Cathmor : nor yet lay the chief on earth. An
oak seized his hair in his fall. His helmet rolled
on the ground. By its thong, hung his broad
shield ; over it wandered his streaming blood. Tla-
min shall weep, in the hall, and strike her heaving
breast.

Nor did Ossian forget the spear, in the wing of
his war. He strewed the field with dead. Young

TEMORA. 437

Uulalla came. ' Soft voice of streamy Clonra !
why dost thou lift the steel ? O that we met in the
strife of song, in thine own rushy vale!' Malthos
beheld him low, and darkened as he rushed along.
On either side of a stream, we bend in the echoing
strife. Heaven comes rolling down ; around burst
the voices of squally winds. Hills are clothed, at
times, in fire. Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist.
In darkness shrunk the foe: Morvcn's warriors
stood aghast. Still I bent over the stream, amidst
my whistling locks.

Then rose the voice of Fingal, and the sound of
the flying foe. I saw the king, at times, in light-
ning, darkly-striding in his might. I struck my
echoing shield, and hung forward on the steps of
Alnecma ; the foe is rolled before me, like a wreath
of smoke.

The sun looked forth from his cloud. The hun-
dred streams of Moi-lena shone. Slow rose the
blue columns of mist, against the glittering hill.
Where are the mighty kings ? Nor by that stream,
nor wood are they ! I hear the clang of arms !
Their strife is in the bosom of that mist. Such is
the contending of spirits in a nightly cloud, when
they strive for the wintry wings of winds, and the
rolling of the foam-covered waves.

I rushed along. The gray mist rose. Tall,
gleaming, they stood at Lubar. Cathmor leaned
against a rock. His half-fallen shield received the
stream, that leapt from the moss above. Towards
him is the stride of Fingal : he saw the hero's
blood. His sword fell slowly to his side. He
spoke, amidst his darkening joy.

' Yields the race of Bcrbar-duthul ? Or still
does he lift the spear ? Not unheard is thy hame,
at Atha, in the gTeen dwelling of strangers. It
has come, like the breeze of his desert, to the ear
of Fingal. Come to my hill of feasts : the mighty
fail, at times. No fire am I to low-laid foes; I
rejoice not over the fall of the brave. To close the
wound is mine : I have known the herbs of the
hills. I seized their fair heads, on high, as they

438 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

waved by their secret streams. Thou art dark and
silent, king of Atha of strangers !'

' By Atha of the stream,' he said, ' there rises a
mossy rock. On its head is the wandering of
boughs, within the course of winds. Dark, in its
face, is a cave, with its own loud rill. There have
I heard the tread of strangers, when they passed to
my hall of shells. Joy rose, like a flame, on my
soul : I blest the echoing rock. Here be my dwell-
ing, in darkness; in my grassy vale. From this I
shall mount the breeze, that pursues my thistle's
beard; or look down, on blue-winding Atha, from
its wandering mist.'

« Why speaks the king of the tomb ? Ossian ! the
warrior has failed! Joy meet thy soul, like a stream,
Cathmor, friend of strangers ! My son, I hear the
call of years ; they take my spear as they pass
along. Why does not Fingal, they seem to say,
rest within his hall ? Dost thou always delight in
blood ? In the tears of the sad ? No: ye dark-roll-
ing years, Fingal delights not in blood. Tears are
wintry streams that waste away my soul. But,
when I lie down to rest, then comes the mighty
voice of war. It awakes me in my hall, and calls
forth all my steel. It shall call it forth no more ;
Ossian, take thou thy father's spear. Lift it, in
battle, when the proud arise.

c My fathers, Ossian, trace my steps : my deeds
are pleasant to their eyes. Wherever I come forth
to battle, on my field, are their columns of mist.
But mine arm rescued the feeble: the haughty
found my rage was fire. Never over the fallen did
mine eye rejoice. For this, my fathers shall meet
me, at the gates of their airy halls, tall with robes
of light, with mildly-kindled eyes. But, to the
proud in arms, they are darkened moons in heaven,
which send the fire of night red-wandering over
their face.

' Father of heroes, Trenmor, dweller of eddying
winds ! I give thy spear to Ossian : let thine eye re-
joice. Thee have I seen, at times, bright from be-
tween thy clouds; so appear to my son, when he is

TEMORA. 439

to lift the spear: then shall he remember thy mighty
deeds, though thou art now but a blast.'

He gave the spear to my hand, and raised, at
once, a stone on high, to speak to future times, with
its gray head of moss. Beneath he placed a sword
in earth, and one bright boss from his shield. Dark
in thought, awhile he bends: his words, at length,
came forth.

• When thou, O stone, shalt moulder down, and
lose thee, in the moss of years, then shall the tra-
veller come, and whistling pass away. Thou knowest
not, feeble man, that fame once shone on Moi-lena.
Here Fingal resigned his spear, after the last of his
fields. Pass away, thou empty shade ! in thy voice
there is no renown. Thou dwellest by some peace-
ful stream; yet a few years, and thou art gone.
No one remembers thee, thou dweller of thick mist !
But Fingal shall be clothed with fame, a beam of
light to other times ; for he went forth, with echo-
ing steel, to save the weak in arms.'

Brightening, in his fame, the king strode to Lu-
bar's sounding oak, where it bent, from its rock,
over the bright-tumbling stream. Beneath it is a
narrow plain, and the sound of the fount of the
rock. Here the standard of Morven poured its
wreaths on the wind, to mark the way of Ferad-
artho, from his secret vale. Bright, from his parted
west, the sun of heaven looked abroad. The hero
saw his people, and heard their shouts of joy. In
broken ridges round, they glittered to the beam.
The king rejoiced, as a hunter in his own green
vale, when, after the storm is rolled away, he sees
the gleaming sides of the rocks. The green thorn
shakes its head in their face ; from their top look
forward the roes.

Gray, at his mossy cave, is bent the aged form of
Clonmal. The eyes of the bard had failed. He
leaned forward on his staff. Bright in her locks,
before him, Sul-malla listened to the tale ; the tale
of the kings of Atha, in the days of old. The noise
of battle had ceased in his ear: he stopped, and raised
the secret sigh. The spirits of the dead, they said,

440 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

often lightened along his soul. He saw the king of

Atha low, beneath his bending tree.

« Why art thou dark ?' said the maid. ■ The strife
of arms is past. Soon shall he come to thy cave,
over thy winding streams. The sun looks from the
rocks of the west. The mists of the lake arise.
Gray, they spread on that hill, the rushy dwelling
of roes. From the mist shall my king appear ! Be-
hold, he comes in his arms. Come to the cave of
Clonmal, O my best beloved !'

It was the spirit of Cathmor, stalking, large, a
gleaming form. He sunk by the hollow stream,
that roared between the hills. s It was but the
hunter,' she said, ' who searches for the bed of the
roe. His steps are not forth to war ; his spouse ex-
pects him with night. He shall, whistling, return
with the spoils of the dark-brown hinds.' Her eyes
were turned to the hill ; again the stately form came
down. She rose in the midst of joy. He retired
again in mist. Gradual vanish his limbs of smoke,
and mix with the mountain wind. Then she knew
that he fell ! ' King of Erin, art thou low ?' Let
Ossian forget her grief; it wastes the soul of age.

Evening came down on Moi-lena. Gray rolled
the streams of the land. Loud came forth the voice
of Fingal : the beam of oaks arose. The people ga-
thered round with gladness, with gladness blended
with shades. They sidelong looked to the king,
and beheld his unfinished joy. Pleasant from the
way of the desert, the voice of music came. It
seemed, at first, the noise of a stream, far distant
on its rocks. Slow it rolled along the hill, like the
ruffled wing of a breeze, when it takes the tufted
beard of the rocks, in the still season of night. It
was the voice of Condan, mixed with Carril's trem-
bling harp. They came, with blue-eyed Ferad-artho,
to Mora of the streams.

Sudden bursts the song from our bards, on Lena :
the host struck their shields midst the sound. Glad-
ness rose brightening on the king, like the beam of
a cloudy day, whep it rises on the green hill, before
the roar of winds. He struck the bossy shield of

TEMORA. 441

kings; at once they cease around. The people
lean forward, from their spears, towards the voice
of their land.

' Sons of Morven, spread the feast; send the night
away in song. Ye have shone around nit', and the
dark storm is past. My people arc the windy rocks,
from which I spread my eagle-wings, when I rush
forth to renown, and seize it on its field. Ossian,
thou hast the spear of Fingal : it is not the staff of a
boy with which he strews the thistle round, young
wanderer of the field. No : it is the lance of the
mighty, with which they stretched forth their hands
to death. Look to thy fathers, my son ; they are
awful beams. With morning lead Ferad-artho forth
to the echoing halls of Temora. Remind him of the
kings of Erin ; the stately forms of old. Let not the
fallen be forgot: they were mighty in the field. Let
Carril pour his song, that the kings may rejoice in
their mist. To-morrow I spread my sails to Selma's
shaded walls, where streamy Duthula winds
through the seats of roe*.'

CONLATH and CUTHONA,

[C'onlath was the youngest of Morni's sons, and bro-
ther to the celebrated Gaul. He was in love with
Cuthona, the daughter of Rumar, when Toscar.
the son of Kinfena, accompanied by Fercuth his
friend, arrived, from Ireland, at Mora, where
Conlath dwelt. He was hospitably received, and,
according to the custom of the times, feasted three
days with Conlath. On the fourth he set sail,
and coasting the island of waves, one of the He-
brides, he saw Cuthona hunting, fell in love with
her, and carried her away, by force, in his ship.
He was forced, by stress of weather, into I-thona,
a desert isle. In the mean time Conlath, hearing
of the rape, sailed after him, and found him on
the point of sailing for the coast of Ireland. They
fought ; and they and their followers fell by
mutual wounds. Cuthona did not long survive ;
for she died of grief the third day after. Fingal.
hearing of their unfortunate death, sent Stormal
the son of Moran to bury them, but forgot to send
a bard to sing the funeral song over their tombs.
The ghost of Conlath comes, long after, to Ossian
to entreat him to transmit to posterity his and
Cuthona's fame; for it was the opinion of the
times, that the souls of the deceased were not
happy till their elegies were composed by a bard.]

DID not Ossian hear a voice? or is it the sound
of days that are no more ? Often does the memory
of former times come, like the evening sun, on my
soul. The noise of the chase is renewed. In thought,
I lift the spear. But Ossian did hear a voice ! Who
art thou, son of night ? The children of the feeble
are asleep. The midnight wind is in my hall. Per-

CONLATH AND CUTHONA. 443

haps it is the shield of Fingal that echoes to the
blast. It hangs in Ossian's hall. He feels it some-
times with his hands. Yes ! I hear thee, my friend !
Long has thy voice been absent from mine ear!
What brings thee, on thy cloud, to Ossian, son of
generous Morni ? Are the friends of the aged near
thee ? Where is Oscar, sou of fame ? He was often
near thee, O Conlath, when the sound of battle arose.

Ghost of Conlath. Sleeps the sweet voice of Cona,
in the midst of his rustling hall ? Sleeps Ossian
in his hall, and his friends without their fame ?
The sea rolls round dark I-thona. Our tombs are
not seen in our isle. How long shall our fame be
unheard, son of resounding Selma ?

Ossia.ii. O that mine eyes could behold thee !
Thou sittest, dim on thy cloud ! Art thou like the
mist of Lano ? An half-extinguished meteor of fire ?
Of what are the skirts of thy robe ? Of what is thine
airy bow ? He is gone on his blast like the shade of
a wandering cloud. Come from thy wall, O harp !
Let me hear thy sound. Let the light of memory
rise on I-thona ! Let me behold again my friends !
And Ossian does behold his friends, on the dark-
blue isle. The cave of Thona appears, with its
mossy rocks and bending trees. A stream roars
at its mouth. Toscar bends over its course. Fer-
cuth is sad by his side. Cuthona sits at a distance
and weeps. Does the wind of the waves deceive
me ? Or do I hear them speak ?

Toscar. The night was stormy. From their hills
the groaning oaks came down. The sea darkly tum-
bled beneath the blast. The roaring waves climbed
against our rocks. The lightning came often and
showed the blasted fern. Fercuth ! I saw the ghost
who embroiled the night. Silent he stood on that
bank. His robe of mist flew on the wind. I could
behold his tears. An aged man he seemed, and
full of thought !

Fercuth. It was thy father, O Toscar. He fore-
sees some death among his race. Such was his
appearance on Cromla, before the great Maronnan
fell. Erin of hills of grass ! how pleasant are thy
vales ! Silence is near thy blue streams. The sun

444 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

is on thy fields. Soft is the sound of the harp in
Selàma; lovely the cry of the hunter on Cromla,
But we are in dark I-thona, surrounded by the
storm. The billows lift their white heads above our
rocks. We tremble amidst the night.

Toscar. Whither is the soul of battle fled, Fercuth
with locks of age? I have seen thee undaunted in
danger; thine eyes burning with joy in the fight.
Whither is the soul of battle fled ? Our fathers never
feared. Go; view the settling sea: the stormy winri
is laid. The billows still tremble on the deep ; they
seem to fear the blast. Go; view the settling sea.
Morning is gray on our rocks. The sun will look
soon from his east, in all his pride of light ! I lifted
up my sails with joy, before the halls of generous
Conlath. My course was by a desert isle, where
Cuthona pursued the deer. I saw her, like that
beam of the sun that issues from the cloud. Her
hair was on her heaving breast. She, bending for-
ward, drew the bow. Her white arm seemed, be-
hind her, like the snow of Cromla. Come to my
soul, I said, huntress of the desert isle ! But she
wastes her time in tears. She thinks of the gene-
rous Conlath. Where can I find thy peace, Cutho-
na, lovely maid ?

Cuthona. A distant steep bends over the sea,
with aged trees and mossy rocks. The billow rolls
at its feet. On its side is the dwelling of roes. The
people call it Mora. There the towers of my love
arise. There Conlath looks over the sea for his only
love. The daughters of the chase returned. Hebe-
held their downcast eyes. ' Where is the daughter
of Rumar?' But they answered not. My peace
dwells on Mora, son of the distant land !

Toscar. Cuthona shall return to her peace ; to
the towers of generous Conlath. He is the friend of
Toscar ! I have feasted in his halls ! Rise, ye gentle
breezes of Erin. Stretch my sails toward Mora's
shores. Cuthona shall rest on Mora ; but the days
of Toscar must be sad. I shall sit in my cave in the
field of the sun. The blast will rustle in my trees ;
I shall think it is Cuthona's voice. But she is distant
far, in the halls of the mighty Conlath !

CONLATH AND CUTHONA. 445

Cuthona. Ha! what cloud is that ? It carries
the ghosts of my fathers. I see the skirts of their
robes, like gray and watery mist. When shall I fall,
ORuraar? Sad Cuthona foresees her death. Will
not Conlath behold me, before I enter the narrow
house ?

Ossian. lie shall behold thee, Ò maid ! He comes
along the heaving sea. The death of Toscar is dark
on his spear. A wound is in his side ! He is pale
at the cave of Thona. He shows his ghastly wound.
Where art thou with thy tears, Cuthona ? The chief
of Mora dies. The vision grows dim on my mind.
I behold the chiefs no more ! But, O ye bards of fu-
ture times, remember the fall of Conlath with tears.
He feli before his day . Sadness darkened in his hall .
His mother looked to his shield on the wall, and it
was bloody. She knew that her hero fell. Her sor-
row was heard on Mora. Art thou pale on thy rock ,
Cuthona, beside the fallen chiefs? Night comes,
and day returns, but none appears to raise their
tomb. Thou frightenest the screaming fowls away.
Thy tears for ever flow. Thou art pale as a watery
cloud, that rises from a lake !

The sons of green Selma came. They found Cu-
thona cold. They raised a tomb over the heroes.
She rests at the side of Conlath! Come not to my
dreams, Ò Conlath ! Thou hast received thy fame.
Be thy voice far distant from my hall, that sleep,
may descend at night. O that I could forget my
friends, till my footsteps should cease to be seen '
till I come among them with joy, and lay my aged
limbs in the narrow house!

BERRATHON.

Fingal, in his voyage to Lochlin.. whither he had
been invited by Starno the father of Agandecea,
touched at Berrathon, an island of Scandinavia,
where he was kindly entertained by Larthmor,
the petty king of the place, who was a vassal of the
supreme kings of Lochlin. The hospitality of
Larthmor gained him Fingal's friendship, which
that hero manifested, after the imprisonment of
Larthmor by his own son, by sending Ossian and
Toscar, the father of Malvina, so often mentioned,
to rescue Larthmor, and to punish the unnatural
behaviour of Uthal. Uthal was handsome, and,
by the ladies, much admired. Nina-thoma, the
beautiful daughter of Tor-thoma, a neighbouring
prince, fell in love and fled with him. He proved
inconstant; for another lady, whose name is not
mentioned, gaining his affections, he confined
Nina-thoma to a desert island near the coast of
Berrathon. She was relieved by Ossian, who,
in company with Toscar, landing on Berrathon,
defeated the forces of Uthal, and killed him in a
single combat. Nina-thoma, whose love not all
the bad behaviour of Uthal could erase, hearing
of his death, died of grief. In the mean time
Larthmor is restored, and Ossian and Toscar
return in triumph to Fingal.
The poem opens with an elegy on the death of
Malvina the daughter of Toscar, and closes with
presages of Ossian's death.]

BEND thy blue course, O stream! round the nar-
row plain of Lutha. Let the green woods hang
over it, from their hills ; the sun look on it at noon.
The thistle is there on its rock, and shakes its beard
to the wind. The flower hangs its heavy head,

BERRATHOX. 447

waving, at times, to the gale. ' Why dost thou awake
me, 0 gale?' it seems to say: ' I am covered with
the drops of heaven. The time of my fading is near,
the blast that shall scatter my leaves. To-morrow
shall the traveller come; he that saw me in my
beauty shall come. His eyes will search the field,
but they will not find me.' So shall they search in
vain for the voice of Cona, after it has failed in the
field. The hunter shall come forth in the morning,
and the voice of my harp shall not be heard. * Where
is the son of car-borne Fingal ?' The tear will be on
his cheek! Then come thou, O Malvina, with all
thy music, come ! Lay Ossian in the plain of Lutha :
let his tomb rise in the lovely field.

Malvina ! where art thou, with thy songs, with the
soft sound of thy steps? Son of Alpin, art thou
near ? where is the daughter of Toscar ? « I passed,
O son of Fingal, by Tor-lutha's mossy walls. The
smoke of the hall was ceased. Silence was among
the trees of the hill. The voice of the chase was
over. I saw the daughters of the bow. I asked
about Malvina, but they answered not. They turned
their faces away : thin darkness covered their
beauty. They were like stars, on a rainy hill, by
night, each looking faintly through the mist.'

Pleasant be thy rest, O lovely beam ! soon hast
thou set on our hills ! The steps of thy departure
were stately, like the moon, on the blue-trembling
wave. But thou hast left us in darkness, first of the
maids of Lutha ! We sit, at the rock, and there is no
voice; no light but the meteor of fire ! Soon hast
thou set, O Malvina, daughter of generous Toscar !
But thou risest like the beam of the east, among the
spirits of thy friends, where they sit, in their stormy
halls, the chambers of the thunder ! A cloud hovers
over Cona. Its blue curling sides are high. The
winds are beneath it, with their wings. Within it is
the dwelling of Fingal. There the hero sits in dark-
ness. His airy spear is in his hand. His shield, half-
covered with clouds, is like the darkened moon,
when one half still remains in the wave, and the
other looks sickly on the field !

448 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

His friends sit around the king, on mist ! They
hear the songs of Ullin : he strikes the half-viewless
harp. He raises the feeble voice. The lesser heroes,
with a thousand meteors, light the airy hall. Malvina
rises in the midst; a blush is on her cheek. She be-
holds the unknown faces of her fathers. She turns
aside her humid eyes. ' Art thou come so soon,'
saidFingal, ' daughter of generous Toscar ? Sadness
dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged son is sad ! I
hear the breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy
heavy locks. It comes to the hall, but thou art not
there. Its voice is mournful among the aims of thy
fathers ! Go, with thy rustling wing, O breeze ! sigh
on Malvina's tomb. It rises yonder beneath the
rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The maids *
are departed to their place. Thou alone, O breeze,
muumest there !'

But who comes from the dusky west, supported
on a cloud ? A smile is on his gray, watery face.
His locks of mist fly on wind. He bends forward
on his airy spear. It is thy father, Malvina ! ' Why
shinest thou, so soon, on our clouds,' he says, « O
lovely light of Lutha? But thou wert sad, my
daughter. Thy friends had passed away. The sons
of little men were in the hall. None remained of
the heroes, but Ossian, king of spears !'

And dost thou remember Ossian, car-borne Tos-
ear, son of Conloch ? The battles of our youth were
many. Our swords went together to the field.
They saw us coming like tv/o falling rocks. The
sons of the stranger fled. ' There come the warriors
of Cona !' they said. « Their steps are in the paths
of the flying !' Draw near, son of Alpin, to the song
of the aged. The deeds of other times are in my
soul. My memory beams on the days that are
past — on the days of mighty Toscar, when our path
was in the deep. Draw near, son of Alpin, to the
last sound of the voice of Cona !

* That is, the young virgins who sung the funeral
elegy over her tomb.

BERRATHON. -H.1

The kiug of Morven commanded. 1 raised my
sails to the wind. Tosear chief of Lutha stood at my
side; I rose on the dark-blue wave. Our course was
to sea-surrounded Berrathon, the isle of many
storms. There dwelt, with his locks of age, the
stately strength of Larthmor ; Larthmor, who spread
the feast of shells to Fingal, when he went to Star-
no's halls, in the days of Agandecca. But when the
chief was old, the pride of his son arose ; the pride
of fair-haired Uthal, the love of a thousand maids.
He bound the aged Larthmor, and dwelt in his
sounding hails !

Long pined the king in his cave, beside his rolling
sea. Day did not come to his dwelling, nor the
burning oak by night. But the wind of ocean was
there, and the parting beam of the moon. The red
star looked on the king, when it trembled on the
western wave. Snitho came to Selmo's hall ; Snitho
the friend of Larthmor's youth. He told of the king
of Berrathon : the wrath of Fingal arose. Thrice he
assumed the spear, resolved to stretch his hand to
Uthal. But the memory of his deeds rose before the
king. He sent his son and Tosear. Our joy was
great on the rolling sea. We often half-unsheathed
our swords. For never before had we fought alone,
in battles of the spear.

Night came down on the ocean. The winds de-
parted on their wings. Cold and pale is the moon.
The red stars lift their heads on high. Our course is
slow along the coast of Berrathon. The white waves
tumble on the rocks. " What voice is that/ said
Tosear, « which comes between the sounds of the
waves ? It is soft but mournful, like the voice of de-
parted bards. But I behold a maid. She sits on the
rock alone. Her head bends on her arm of snow.
Her dark hair is in the wind. Hear, son of Fingal,
her song ; it is smooth as the gliding stream.' We
came to the silent bay, and heard the maid of
night.

* How long will ye roll around me, blue-tumbling
waters of ocean ? My dwelling was not always in
caves, nor beneath the whistling tree. The feast was

450 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

spread in Tor-thoma's hall. My father delighted in
my voice. The youths beheld me in the steps of my
loveliness. They blessed the dark-haired Nina-
thoma. It was then thou didst come, O Uthal ! like
the son of heaven ! The souls of the virgins are thine,
son of generous Larthmor ! But why dost thou leave
me alone, in the midst of roaring waters? Was my
soul dark with thy death ? Did my white hand lift
the sword ? Why then hast thou left me alone, king
of higli Finthormo ?'

The tear started from my eye, when I heard the
voice of the maid. I stood before her in my arms.
I spoke the words of peace! ' Lovely dweller of the
cave, what sigh is in thy breast ! Shall Ossian lift
his sword in thy presence, the destruction of thy
foes ? Daughter of Tor-Thoma, rise. I have heard
the words of thy grief. The race of Morven are
around thee, who never injured the weak. Come to
our dark-bosomed ship ! thou brighter than the set-
ting mooni Our course is to the rocky Berrathon,
to the echoing walls of Finthormo.' She came in
her beauty ; she came with all her lovely steps. Si-
lent joy brightened in her face; as when the sha-
dows fly from the field of spring ; the blue stream is
rolling in brightness, and the green bush bends over
its course !

The morning rose with its beams. We came to
Rothma's bay. A boar rushed from the wood ; my
spear pierced his side, and he fell. I rejoiced over
the blood. I foresaw my growing fame. But now
the sound of Uthal's train came, from the high Fin-
thormo. They spread over the heath to the chase of
the boar. Himself comes slowly on, in the pride of
his strength. He lifts two pointed spears. On his
side is the hero's sword. Three youths carry his po-
lished bows. The bounding of five dogs is before
him. His heroes move on, at a distance, admiring
the steps of the king. Stately was the son of Larth-
mor ! but his soul was dark ! — dark as the troubled
face of the moon, when it foretels the storms.

We rose on the heath before the king. He stopped
in the midst of his course. His heroes gathered

BERRATHON. l.Sl

around. A gray-haired bard advanced. ' Whence
are the sons of the strangers ?' began the bard of
song. * The children of the unhappy come to Ber-
rathon— to the sword of car-borne Uthal. He spreads
no feast in his hall. The blood of strangers is on his
streams. If from Selma's walls ye come, from the
mossy walls of Fingal, choose three youths to go to
your king to tell of the fall of his people. Perhaps
he hero may come and pour his blood on Utbal's
>word. So shall the fame of Finthormo arise, like
.he growing tree of the vale !'

« Xever will it rise, Obard," I said in the pride of
my wrath. ' He would shrink from the presence of
Fingal, whose eyes are the flames of death. The son
of Comhal comes, and kings vanish before him.
They are rolled together, like mist, by the breath
of his rage. Shall three tell to Fingal, that his peo-
ple fell ? Yes ! they may tell it, bard ! but his people
shall fall with fame !'

I stood in the darkness of my strength. Tosear
drew his sword at my side. The foe came on like a
stream. The mingled sound of death arose. Man
took man ; shield met shield : steel mixed its beams
with steel. Darts hiss through air. Spears ring on
mails. Swords on broken bucklers bound. As the
noise of an aged grove beneath the roaring wind,
when a thousand ghosts break the trees by night,
such was the din of arms ! But Uthal fell beneath
my sword. The sons of Berrathon fled. It was
then I saw him in his beauty, and the tear hung in
my eye ! ' Thou art fallen, young tree,' I said ,
' with all thy beauty round thee. Thou art fallen
on thy plains, and the field is bare. The winds come
from the desert ! there is no sound in thy leaves !
Lovely art thou in death, son of car-borne Larth-
mor.'

Nina-thoma sat on the shore. She heard the
sound of battle. She turned her red eyes on Leth-
mal, the gray-haired bard of Selma. He alone had
remained on the coast, with the daughter of Tor-tho-
ma. « Son of the times of old !' she said, * I hear
the noise of death. Thy friends have met with

45'2 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

Uthal, and the chief is low ! O that I had remained
on the rock, enclosed with the tumbling waves !
Then would my soul be sad, but his death would not
reach my ear. Art thou fallen on thy heath, Oson
of high Finthormo ? Thou didst leave me on a rock,
but my soul was full of thee. Son of high Finthormo,
art thou fallen on thy heath ?'

She rose pale in her tears. She saw the bloody
shield of Uthal. She saw it in Ossian's hand. Her
steps were distracted on the heath. She flew. She
found him. She fell. Her soul came forth in a sigh.
Her hair is spread on her face. My bursting tears
descend. A tomb arose on the unhappy. My song
of woe was heard. ' Rest, hapless children of youth !
Rest at the noise of that mossy stream ! The virgins
will see your tomb, at the chase, and turn away their
weeping eyes. Yourfame will be in song. The voice
of the harp will be heard in your praise. The daugh-
ters of Selma shall hear it : your renown shall be in
other lands. Rest, children of youth, at the noise
of the mossy stream!'

Two days we remained on the coast. The heroes of
Berrathon convened. We brought Larthmor to his
halls. The feast of shells is spread. The joy of the
aged was great. He looked to the arms of his fathers :
the arms which he left in his hall, when the pride of
Uthal rose. We were renowned before Larthmor. He
blessed the chiefs of Morven. He knew not that his
son was low, the stately strength of Uthal ! They had
told, that he had retired to the woods with the tears
of grief. They had told it, but he was silent in the
tomb of Rothma's heath.

On the fourth day we raised our sails, to the roar
of the northern wind. Larthmor came to the coast.
His bards exalted the song. The joy of the king was
great ; he looked to Rothma's gloomy heath. He
saw the tomb of his son. The memory of Uthal
rose. * Who of my heroes,' he said, ' lies there?
he seems to have been of the kings of men. Was he
renowned in my halls before the pride of Uthal rose ?
Ye are silent, sons of Berrathon ! is the king of he-
roes low ? My heart melts for thee, O Uthal ! though

BERRATHON. 453

thy hand was against thy father. O that I had remain-
ed in the cave ! that my son had dwelt in Finthor-
mo ! I might have heard the tread of his feet, when
he went to the chase of the boar. I might have heard
his voice on the blast of my cave. Then would my
soul be glad ; but now darkness dwells in my halls-

Such were my deeds, son of Alpin, when the arm
of my youth was strong — such the actions of Toscar,
the car-borne son of Conloch. But Toscar is on his
flying cloud. I am alone at Lutha. My voice is like
the last sound of the wind, when it forsakes the
woods. But Ossian shall not be long alone. He sees
the mist that shall receive his ghost. He beholds"
the mist that shall form his robe, when he appears
on his hills. The sons of feeble men shall behold
me, and admire the statureof the chiefs of old. They
shall creep to their caves. They shall look to the
sky with fear : for my steps shall be in the clouds.
Darkness shall roll on my side.

Lead, son of Alpin, lead the aged to his woods.
The winds began to rise. The dark wave of the lake
resounds. Bends there not a tree from Mora with
its branches bare ? It bends, son of Alpin, in the
rustling blast. My harp hangs on a blasted branch.
Thesound of its strings is mournful. Does the wind
touch thee, O harp, or is it some passing ghost ? It
is the hand of Malvina ! Bring me the harp, son of
Alpin. Another song shall rise. My soul shall de-
part in the sound. My fathers shall hear it in their
airy hall. Their dim faces shall hang with joy from
their clouds, and their hands receive their son.
The aged oak bends over the stream. It sighs with
all its moss. The withered fern whistles near, and
mixes, as it waves, with Ossian's hair.

■ Strike the harp, and raise the song : be near,
with all your wings, ye winds. Bear the mournfu!
sound away to Fingal's airy hall. Bear it to Fingal's
hall, that he may hear the voice of his son : the voice
of him that praised the mighty !

' The blast of north opens thy gates, O king ! I be-
hold thee sitting on mist, dimly gleaming in all thine
arms. Thy form now is not the terror of the valiant.

454 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

It is like a watery cloud ; when we seethe stars be-
hind it, with their weeping eyes. Thy shield is the
aged moon : thy sword a vapour half kindled with
fire. Dim and feeble is the chief, who travelled in
brightness before ! But thy steps are on the winds of
the desert. The storms are darkening in thy hand.
Thou takest the sun in thy wrath, and hidest him in
thy clouds. The sons of little men are afraid. A
thousand showers descend. But when thou comest
forth in thy mildness, the gale of the morning is
near thy course. The sun laughs in his blue fields.
The gray stream winds in its vale. The bushes shake
their green heads in the wind. The roes bound to-
wards the desert.

' There is a murmur in the heath ! the stormy
winds abate ! I hear the voice of Fingal. Long has
it been absent from mine ear ! ' Come, Ossian, come
away,' he says. Fingal has received his fame. We
passed away, like flames that had shone for a season.
Our departure was in renown. Though the plains
of our battles are dark and silent, our fame is in
the four gray stones. The voice of Ossian has been
heard. The harp has been strung in Selma. « Come
Ossian, come away,' he says; 'come, fly with thy fa-
thers on clouds.' I come, I come, thou king of
men ! The life of Ossian fails. I begin to vanish on
Copa. My steps are not seen in Selma. Beside the
stone of Mora I shall fall asleep. The winds whist-
ling in my gray hair, shall not awaken me. Depart
. on thy wings, O wind ! thou canst not disturb the
rest of the bard. The night is long, but his eyes are
heavy. Depart, thou rustling blast.'

* But why art thou sad, son of Fingal ? Why grows
the cloud of thy soul ? The chiefs of other times are
departed. They have gone without their fame.
The sons of future years shall pass away. Another
race shall arise. The people are like the waves of
ocean : like the leaves of woody Morven, they pass
away in the rustling blast, and other leaves lift their
green heads on high.'

' Did thy beauty last, O Ryno ? Stood the strength
of car-borne Oscar ? Fingal himself departed ! The

BERRATHO.V

4.55

halls of his fathers forgot his steps. Shalt thou then
remain, thou aged bard ! when the mighty have
failed ? But my fame shall remain, and grow like
the oak of Morven ; which lifts its broad head to the
storm, and rejoices in the course of the wind !'

LONDON:
Printed by Thomas Davison, Whitefriars.

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